Sensory Perception
by neonchica
Summary: They say your remaining senses become more acute when you lose one, but can Dean still protect Sam when he can't see him?
1. Chapter 1

**Hey all - so I'm back. I think I tol a lot of you that the Hanging on by a Thread sequal was next, but the requests continued to pour in and eventually the blind Dean story ended up taking point. Unfortunately, I'm struggling with a serious case of writer's block and I need your help. This is six chapters in, so it's not entirely at a standstill, but I need feedback to continue. I will post a chapter a week until I get further ahead - then might be able to post closer together. Please send in your love, your suggestions, your desires - anything that might help make this move forward. All will be a blessing. And, as promised, all 4 suggested storylines will be posted eventually. Hope everyone enjoys tonight's episode. Looks like we're in for at least another 4 come May - whoo hoo!**

**Disclaimer: All standard ones apply. They're not mine, never have been, and never will be. Now excuse me while I go pout...**

Agonized screaming fills the air, coming close to destroying what little bit of sanity Dean feels he has left to hold onto. His immediate thought - the only thought he can force through the shrill sound - is of Sam. His Sammy. _Is he hurt? Is that why Sam is screaming so loud?_ _I have to get to him - I have to help him._

But it's not Sam's screams that pierce the air. And it's several more minutes before Dean realizes this, before he realizes that the screams are coming from his own mouth, his own throat.

As soon as that realization slams into him several more seem to flood through his consciousness as well.

Pain is the first. His eyes feel like they're on fire. He has never felt such intense heat in his life, even when he pulled Sam from the fire in their own house when he was four years old the heat didn't reach him the way this seems to.

Dean reaches his own hands up to his face, frantically trying to tear at the cause of such torture and still unable to stop the sounds coming from his own body. Within seconds he feels firm fingers wrap around his wrists and bring them away from his eyes, down to his sides. He fights the grip, desperate for whoever is restraining him to realize the pain he's in. This has to stop, he can't take it much longer.

"Shhh, Dean, it'll be okay. Don't touch it," he hears whispered soothingly in his ear. It is Sam's voice; firm and calming. Yet Dean can still hear the hint of panic that just won't go away, and he knows it's bad. Whatever it is, is really bad.

"Sammy?" Dean cries out, substituting the name for the wordless cries he had previously been calling. It helps, having something to latch onto, and he instantly finds himself calming just a little.

His hands twist around in the grip, instantly aware that it is Sam's fingers that hold him so firm, and his own fingers finally find purchase on his brother's callused hands. Dean clenches down hard, knowing Sam can take the pain, and needing that outlet. Something's gotta give. Somehow he has to draw this pain away from his eyes, his face, and move it to somewhere more manageable.

"Help's coming," Sam continues to whisper. "They're on the way. We're gonna take care of this, I promise. I'm gonna take care of you."

For the life of him Dean can't remember what _this_ is, can't remember why he's screaming the way he is, or why his face feels like it's about to be seared off the bones. The pain is just too intense to think of anything else, and besides, he doesn't want to remember. All he wants right now is for this scorching agony to go away

Sam slips one of his hands from Dean's grip, tightening the other around both hands in exchange, and a few seconds later Dean feels something cool hit his face. "This will help," Sam soothes as he presses the wet cloth down against Dean's eyes.

Dean screams at the pressure and Sam immediately lessens his hold as a frenzied string of apologies spews from his mouth. He sounds frantic. Desperate. Completely unsure of himself. "I'm sorry, Dean. I'm sorry. I don't know what to do. None of the books said anything about what to do if this happens."

That just doesn't sound right. Sam's usually so sure of himself; so calm, reserved. This uncertainty just isn't becoming. And it sure as hell isn't helping.

"Sammy please, make it stop," Dean moans, fingernails digging into his little brother's wrist in his agony.

Then again, Dean's weakness doesn't seem to be doing much to help the situation either, so he supposes they're even.

The sound of sirens pierce the air as Sam leans over his brother to whisper in his ear again. The cloth is still across his eyes, but Dean can feel Sam's hand against his hair line and he realizes Sam doesn't want to add any unnecessary pressure to his eyes. He's grateful for his brother's sensitivity.

"I can hear the ambulance, Dean. They're coming. We're going to fix this."

Mouth open, Dean's breath comes in short, frantic gasps. It's about the only response he's able to yield to Sam's ramblings.

"It hurts, Sam. God, it hurts," Dean moans.

"I know, Dean. I know it hurts. Help is coming."

And then the sirens grow unbearably loud, mixing with the sound of tires cutting through gravel, before the sirens shut off abruptly.

"Please, we're over here!" Sam cries out. Dean can feel his brother's hand pulling within his own grip, and knows Sam is frantically waving down the paramedics. "Please, he needs help!"

More voices join them, these just as urgent as Sam's, but not nearly as panicky.

"What's happened?" a husky male voice questions close to his ear.

Sam's answer is short and succinct, yielding just enough information to get Dean the help he needs and not an ounce more. "Acid of some sort - it got in his eyes. I don't know. I tried to flush it out."

His little brother's voice is trembling, and Dean wants nothing more than to console him. But how can he when it's all he can do to keep the screams at bay. _Please, Sammy, stay strong for me. Don't lose it. I don't have the strength to protect you right now._ His hand clamps down tighter against little brother's fingers, drawing strength for himself as much as it yields comfort back out.

Dean hears more voices spewing indecipherable medical jargon, feels the cloth pulled from his eyes and hands pawing at his face and his arms. A needle pierces his skin in the crook of his arm and he jumps a little - Dean doesn't think he'll ever get used to needles regardless of how many times he's had them jammed into his skin.

"Buddy, you're gonna be just fine. You with us?"

Seconds pass and Sam squeezes his hand three times before Dean realizes the question is aimed at him. He gives a feeble thumbs up, relaxing only when the pain killers they have inserted into the IV line begin to work.

Soon he feels himself begin to move, an almost floating sensation for a while, and then a quick jerk upwards before sirens wail and Dean loses his fight for consciousness.

The ER is a bustle of activity today, and the waiting room is crammed full of patients and anxious family members. A dull roar of voices seems to permeate the air from every corner, the sound all blending together. People sneeze and cough and groan, some scream obscenities, while others whimper prayers. But Sam hears none of it.

Right now, his world consists only of his concern for Dean.

He stares straight ahead, gaze never wavering from the automatic double doors that Dean disappeared behind almost two hours ago, surrounded by a slew of medical personnel, tubes and wires trailing from all over his body. He tenses every time a scrubs clad doctor emerges from the room, but they never call for him. And every time, a little more tension builds up in his body in his quest for an answer.

A mantra seems to have found itself to Sam's lips, _He's gonna be fine, he's gonna be fine, he's gonna be fine_, and if he was really paying attention he would have noticed the rocking back and forth of his body as he is unconsciously pulled into a cocoon of comfort. All around him others have pulled back, weary of the jumpy stranger in the corner.

At some point a nurse had thrust a clipboard into Sam's hands and demanded he fill in the medical and insurance information. But that's already a distant memory, and he doesn't even know what he wrote. He doesn't know what names he used.

The doctor has to call three times before Sam registers that Gorby is the last name he's given for himself and his brother. He finally looks up, pulling a muscle in his neck he turns his head so fast.

"That's me!" Sam cries desperately. "I'm Sam. Sam Gorby. My brother is Dean."

The doctor nods, all seriousness and businesslike in his demeanor. He holds out a hand as he introduces himself as Dr. Hartman, and encourages Sam to follow him back through the doors and down the hall.

Neither one says a word until they arrive in a small room. The doctor motions to the grouping of chairs against one wall and Sam sinks bonelessly into one of them immediately.

"My brother, doc, how is he?"

"He's holding his own," the doctor sighs. He runs a hand through his hair and sits in a chair opposite Sam. "The EMT's said he'd gotten some acid splashed in his eyes?"

Sam flinches. It's never good when doctors avoid offering details and begin asking questions instead. It means they don't believe the story that's been spun. That, or they need more details to solve the problem. Either way, Sam isn't looking forward to the conversation that is inevitably about to transpire. But if it's going to help Dean, he'll do just about anything.

"I don't know what kind, if that's what you're asking. We were at a friends farm, working out in the barn. There was a whole shelf of cans - I don't know what was in most of them - and they got bumped. It all happened so fast, doc. One minute Dean was standing, and the next he was on the ground, screaming about how his eyes were on fire."

The lie slides out velvety smooth, and Sam knows immediately that the doctor is buying every word of it.

"So you don't know what the substance was that got in your brother's eyes? Any chance you might be able to get a sample of it?"

Sam shakes his head, feeling the remorse immediately. He would give anything to be able to give them exactly what they need, what Dean needs. But there is nothing left. The poison was saliva from a Klower demon, and he'd killed it just after it had spit at Dean. The hail of bullets made of consecrated iron and holy water had eviscerated the demon, making it disappear in a cloud of smoke soon after the last bullet had entered through its skull.

"You're sure there's nothing you can tell me about the substance?" The doctor looks more than disappointed. He actually looks discouraged, anxious, possibly even...scared.

Suddenly it sinks in, and Sam is on his feet a half second later. "Doc, what's going on with my brother? What aren't you telling me?"

Dr. Hartman swallows hard and pinches his lips together, clasping his hands and leaning in towards Sam. "I've called in the consult of an ocular surgeon and a plastic surgeon on your brother's case," he begins. "They should both be here within the hour."

"That's not making me feel better, doc. What do you need them for? What's happened?"

"Sam–" There is a long hesitation, the doctor looking everywhere but at Sam as Sam bores holes into the doctors skull with his eyes. "Sam, whatever it was that was spilled on your brother's face has done severe damage to his eyes and the surrounding skin. We haven't been able to pinpoint the chemical makeup of the substance, but it's acting like an alkali - worse than an acid. Even after flushing out the area the chemical is still eating away at the tissue. We're doing everything we can to reduce the damage, but–"

"But what," Sam demands, bringing himself up to his full height and towering over the doctor. "He's going to be fine, doc, right? Tell me he's going to be fine."

For his part, Dr. Hartman manages to remain calm in light of the giant overshadowing his much smaller stature. "Mr. Gorby, please sit down. This is why I have called in a consult with the experts. I can't tell you what the ultimate result will be until these two doctors have a chance to see your brother."

"Just give it to me straight, doc. Worst case scenario. What are we looking at here?"

"It's too early to tell, Sam. Anything I tell you would just be speculation."

The man looks away, and Sam can tell right there that he's lying. That he's already formed the worst case scenario in his head. That worst case scenario is probably a better bet than best case scenario.

"That's bullshit, doc. I need to know. I need to know what we're dealing with here, what could happen. Please."

Dr. Hartman drops his head into his hands, clearly unnerved by the ferocity of Sam's insistence. Another minute passes, Sam breathing heavily over top of the doctor, until the man finally looks up and offers a weak, "Fine. Sit down. I'll give it to you straight."

Nodding, Sam obeys the request and seats himself across from the doctor again. He waits impatiently, foot tapping nervously against the tiled floor.

"Worst case scenario...severe scarring, headaches, vertigo. And blindness."

Sam feels his heart skip a beat, feels his stomach lurch up into his throat, and it's all he can do to keep the bile from rising up with it. "No," he hears himself say. Although the voice doesn't sound like his own. It echoes and dins with unfamiliar tones. "Nononononono. You must have done the tests wrong. You can't mean...he can't–"

"Sam, I–" The doctor reaches out a hand and places it on Sam's knee in a comforting gesture, but Sam is quick to push it away.

"NO! You can't mean it. My brother can't be blind. He CAN'T!"

They make Sam wait another twenty minutes while they get Dean settled into a room, and then a nurse leads him up the elevator to the fifth floor and then down the hall to his brother's room. Dr. Hartman is already in there, along with another nurse, and between the two of them they have managed to completely block Sam's view of Dean.

The first nurse, Cheryl on her nametag, holds the door open patiently as she waits for Sam to make a commitment to entering the room. He hesitates just long enough for the doctor to realize he's standing there, and then it's too late. Dr. Hartman shifts, offering full view of his brother, and it's all Sam can do to suppress the choked gasp that threatens to escape.

The bed is raised to a forty-five degree angle with Dean leaning motionless against its head. Most of the top half of his head is swathed in white bandages, with just a few spikes of hair sticking out from the top and from the tip of his nose down. As Sam steps closer he can see angry red blisters peeking menacingly from beneath the bandages. He winces at the sight, registering for the first time Dr. Hartman's words, realizing that the scaring extended beyond Dean's eyes.

He can't speak for fear that he might say the wrong thing, in the wrong way. He's afraid of what his voice will do, of how much it might betray him. And yet, on some other level, he knows that's the only way Dean will know he's here. _He's blind, Sam. You idiot. He can't see you. _

"Dean," Sam says hesitantly, taking another tentative step forward.

"Sammy." Dean's voice comes out weak and scared as he rolls his head against the pillow in the direction of his brother's voice. "Sammy, you're here."

"We have him sedated to help with the pain," Dr. Hartman tells Sam quietly before stepping to the side to allow the brothers time to reconnect.

Sam nods his acknowledgment to the doctor, then closes the remaining distance between himself and Dean. He clamps his large hand down firmly against his brother's shoulder, squeezing reassuringly. "Yeah, Dean, I'm here. It's going to be okay."

"It hurts," Dean whimpers in a very uncharacteristic, childlike voice.

"I know, Dean. I know."

"Can't see, Sam."

"You have gauze on your eyes, Dean. You won't be able to see through it." And god does Sam hope he speaks the truth on that front. He'll give anything for the gauze to be the only reason Dean can't see him.

"It hurts," he moans again, his lucidity clearly waning. "Sam, please."

"I'm here, bro. We're going to get this thing taken care of. Just hold on. Fight the pain." Squeezing Dean's shoulder again, Sam shoots a look of desperation to the doctor. He speaks low, hoping his brother can't hear the desperation in his voice as he demands, "Isn't there something else you can give him?"

Hartman shakes his head apologetically as he pulls Deans chart from where he had set it on the table beside the bed. He scans over it once more, double checking his work. "I'm sorry, no. It's too soon to give him more medication. But I think it's starting to work. He's getting tired."

Looking over at Dean, face swathed in bandages, Sam can't see how the doctor knows whether Dean is getting tired or not. And yet, no sooner does Sam find himself doubting Dr. Hartman's words then he hears his brother's breathing even out and watches his head sink further into the pillow as the sedatives go into effect.

"I'll leave you to sit with your brother," the doctor says, tucking Dean's chart under his arm and nodding at the nurse who, up til now, has been standing quietly in the shadows of the room watching the scene play out. "We will be back in when the consult team arrives. Do you need anything before then?"

Sam shakes his head and sinks heavily into the rolling chair beside Dean's bed. "No, thank you. I think I just need some time to absorb all this so far."

Oppressive silence reigns supreme once the doctor and nurse leave. In the past, trips to the hospital always included the irritating din of a heart monitor, the steady hiss of an oxygen tank, at times even the rise and fall of a respirator. But this is not a life threatening injury, and the heart monitor Dean is hooked up to is merely precautionary because of the medication they have pumping through his system. As a result, they have turned the volume down on the heart monitor. The only sound that breaks in is the rare inflation of the blood pressure cuff on Dean's arm as takes his readings every fifteen minutes.

Even Sam can't bring himself to break the silence despite the unnerving feeling of claustrophobia he is suddenly experiencing. _God, Dean, what the hell are we going to do if this thing is permanent? _

Instead, he bows his head, forehead against his brother's arm, and prays to a God he's not sure he even believes in. And when he's out of pleas he can't bear to move, to look up. So he stays in that same position for the next half hour until the silence is broken by a solid knock on the doorframe of Dean's hospital room.

Looking up, Sam sees Dr. Hartman standing there flanked on either side by two doctors he doesn't know but assumes they are the consults Dr. Hartman had spoken of earlier. He only knows they're doctors by the white lab coats they wear with their names embroidered on the pocket. Sam stands quickly, crossing the room in an attempt to keep the initial conversation from Dean's ears, and allows Dr. Hartman to make his introductions.

The ocular surgeon is pleasant and sincere, greeting Sam with a genuine smile that immediately instils confidence despite her youth and petite frame. She can't be more than mid-thirties, if that, but Sam immediately feels at ease. Dr. Hartman introduces her as Dr. Korpashan, and she takes Sam's outstretched hand within her two smaller ones, sandwiching them as she offers words of reassurance.

"Dr. Hartman has already filled me in on your brother's preliminary diagnosis, Sam. I just want you to know that I'm going to do everything in my power to help Dean."

He smiles gratefully, immediately hopeful. "Thank you for that. You have no idea. My brother, he uh– he's not going to be able to survive without his sight. You've just...just thank you."

The plastic surgeon is older, in his mid to late fifties, and comes off with an air of cockiness that immediately sets Sam back to a feeling of unease. He barely acknowledges Sam, and certainly offers no words of comfort. Instead, the doctor, last name Reddig, breezes past the group in the doorway and approaches the sleeping Dean while Dr. Hartman shrugs apologetically as he impresses upon Sam the fact that "Dr. Reddig is the best in his field."

Sam tries to find comfort in the fact that Dr. Hartman clearly knows the man is a prick, yet has chosen Reddig to work on his team regardless. If that isn't a sign of talent, Sam isn't sure what is.

It doesn't take long, though, for Sam to find himself on edge as he watches Dr. Reddig reach for the bandages on Dean's face with no regard for the young man buried beneath them, and begins to tug them off. Sam knows Dean wasn't awake before, but he also knows that the amount of personal space intrusion Reddig is bestowing on Dean is enough to make the hunter convert into lethal mode despite the amount of drugs in his system.

"Sir, you need to back off," Sam snaps, lunging for the plastic surgeon at the same time he sees his brother's fingers twitch on both hands. He's across the room in a second, grabbing at the surgeon's shoulder and shoving him back just as Dean's hand comes up with warp speed, grabbing air where Reddig's neck had been just seconds before.

"He's kinda jumpy," Sam explains, backing off as Reddig jerks out of Sam's hold as though he hadn't just protected him from what very well could have been a strangle hold.

"Sam!" The panic in Dean's voice is unmistakable in spite of the haze of drugs still holding him prisoner in a fog of incoherency.

Taking a second to glare threateningly at the arrogant doctor, Sam hurries to Dean's side and resumes his position of strong hand clenched comfortingly on his brother's shoulder. "It's alright, Dean. You're safe."

The other two doctors in the room stare, confusion mixed with surprise on their faces, but neither steps forward to intervene as Sam stares off with Dr. Reddig.

"I need to check him out if I'm going to have any idea of whether or not I can fix the scars," Reddig growls, taking a step towards the brothers.

"I have no problem with that," Sam replies. "But you're going to have to respect Dean's space. The least you can do is tell him what you're doing."

"He was asleep."

"And now he's awake."

Choosing not to allow Reddig another opportunity to continue arguing, Sam turns back to Dean and pats his chest with his open palm. "Dean, there are some doctors here that are going to take a look at you. They're going to remove the bandages and look at the damage so they can figure out how to fix it, okay?"

Sam waits patiently for a response that is slow in coming. It seems to take Dean far longer than usual to back down, for his breathing to ease and his shoulders to relax. He sucks in a deep breath, holds it, and lets it out slowly before he finally responds. "You trust them?"

Looking from face to face Sam isn't sure exactly how to answer. Hartman and Korpashan are no brainers; they have both managed to make him feel at ease from the get-go. But Reddig leaves a lot to be desired with his bedside manner, and truth be told Sam wouldn't trust the guy as far as he can throw him. But telling Dean that means his brother doesn't get the help he needs. _Is that selfish or smart?_ Sam wonders, weighing his options.

In the end it comes down to a matter of trusting himself to look out for Dean. And that, there is no doubt. "Yeah, Dean. I trust them."

The last of the tension leaves Dean's stance and he relaxes back into the pillows, shoulder to shoulder with Sam, as he allows the doctors to do their work.


	2. Chapter 2

**_Hi All you wonderful readers! I can't tell you how thrilled I am by the response to this story. With luck it will keep the writer's block at bay and the ideas will keep on flowing. You all are awesome - please keep the reviews coming... _**

**_Disclaimer: see chapter 1. Still don't own 'em, boo hoo!_**

Dean is asleep again, exhausted from the ministrations of the three doctors. And now Sam is left to sit and ponder, worry and plan, as he waits in silence for word of Dean's diagnosis. They had been quick with the tests, doing what needed to be done before covering Dean's face and eyes back up with fresh gauze. But it hadn't been quick enough to keep Sam from seeing what he now wishes to never see again.

Dean's eyes were red and bloodshot, pussy, a cloud of creams and ointments pooling on the surface in a superfluous effort at healing the burned eyes on their own. At the time Dean was too out of it to truly comprehend what the sightlessness meant, but Sam knows all that will come in time.

The skin surrounding Dean's eyes - his cheeks and nose and temples - was all raw and blistered, the epicenter of the burns a bloodless white in stark contrast to the bright pink edges. Sam noticed, ironically, that the lashes and brows all seemed to be perfectly in tact, untouched by the searing acid that marred the rest of Dean's features.

Once the inspections were done Dr. Hartman had ordered another round of sedatives for Dean and called Sam out into the hall for a quick update. "We need some time to discuss our findings and settle on a plan of action," he explained as soon as the door closed behind the group. "If you want, you can get yourself something to eat. We should have some kind of answer for you by the time you return."

Sam shook his head. "I'm not leaving him alone," Sam stalwartly refused, leaving the doctor no other choice but to accept and move on. "I'll be here waiting for your return."

That had been two hours ago. Enough time for him to eat and return from four, maybe five, meals. And Sam is growing more and more impatient as he waits for the return of the doctors. Just as he is about to place a call in to the nurses station, as he's already done two other times, Dr. Hartman finally knocks on the opened door to Dean's room and steps inside.

Sam is on his feet in an instant, expectantly peeking around the corner for a sight of the other two doctors. He's disappointed to see that Hartman is alone.

"Dr. Korpashan and Dr. Reddig felt it would be better if we spoke with you alone before we explain the procedures to your brother. They felt it might help if you were prepared first. They're waiting in a room down the hall."

Nodding, Sam looks back to his sleeping brother, torn. He agrees that he should know what to expect first, maybe find a way to sugar coat the worst of the details when they tell Dean. But he doesn't want to leave him - can't stand the thought of Dean waking up alone, in the dark.

"The nurses are just outside, Sam." Hartman assures, immediately picking up on Sam's angst. "If he needs anything, they'll be here immediately."

Sam bites his lower lip, hands stuffed into his pockets, and finally consents. "I'll be right back, Dean," he says softly, brushing his hand against his brother's forehead. Dean sighs, but doesn't wake, and Sam takes that as his cue that Dean will be alright while he's gone.

He follows Dr. Hartman out the door, down the hall, and into a small room near the back of the building. Drs. Korpashan and Reddig are already inside, deep in a conversation that abruptly ends the minute Sam steps through the door. They nod at him, and he nods back.

"Have a seat, Sam," Hartman says.

He sits cautiously, never fully breaking his gaze from the three doctors. Somehow he knows the news won't be what he wants to hear.

Dr. Reddig speaks first, clearly more eager to break his news than Dr. Korpashan. He has a loud, grating voice that directly matches his ego. "Sam, we've gone over all the results of the tests we ran on Dean. We have determined that surgery is the best option we have. An OR has already been scheduled for tomorrow morning. Dr. Korpashan and I will work together to try and repair the damage that has been done."

Sam lets out a breath of relief, finding hope in the surgeon's words.

"The damage to his face, while it appears bad, can very likely be fixed with skin grafts," he continues, pulling out a large color poster with the stages of a graft procedure. "I will remove the damaged tissue from his cheeks and temple, and replace it with viable tissue from the thigh and buttox. With any luck the two will meld together, and he should have minimal scarring."

Sam actually smiles, relief at knowing there is hope for the scarring allowing his mind to wander to the relentless teasing he can fling at his brother for the fact that, soon, he will be wearing parts of his ass on his face.

But then he looks over at Dr. Korpashan, sees the stoicism still displayed against her creamy, milk chocolate complexion, and knows that the good news is about to cease. He doesn't want to know, and remains stubbornly silent, waiting for the ocular surgeon to break the uneasy silence.

She inches closer to him, clasps her hands together, and looks Sam straight in the eye with an expression that screams _I'm sorry. I don't want to do this._ "While Dr. Reddig is working on the facial surgery, I will focus on Dean's eyes," she begins, voice soft yet solid. She may be hesitant to tell Sam her news, but she is still professional.

"There is a procedure that uses a laser to zap away scarring on the surface of the eye. With any luck, this will restore Dean's sight."

"And without luck?"

"Sam," Dr. Korpashan sighs and looks away, down at her perfectly groomed fingernails. "There is a very good chance that the burns go deeper than just the surface. Alkalines can be extremely abrasive, dangerous. And the length of time the chemicals were on your brother's eyes - you just need to prepare yourselves for the possibility that this might not work. I'm going to do everything in my power to help your brother, but he may be blind permanently. I'm so sorry."

There is a pause, a deadly silence, as Sam soaks in the information. He takes a minute to study each doctor in turn, leaving no feature unnoted, ensuring that his dangerous gaze gets through to each of the three surgeons in the room. It's a rarity that Sam brings out this side of himself, but now seems appropriate. Now, when Dean's livelihood - quite possibly his sanity - hang in the balance. He wants to make sure that his point gets across, that there's no room for questions or pause.

"He _needs_ to see," Sam growls. He sees Dr. Korpashan shrink back, flinch, but he ignores it and the feeling of guilt that overwhelms him at tearing into the doctor. It's not her fault, and a part of him knows that, but it's _Dean_. "My brother can not be blind. You get your laser treatments or whatever else it's going to take, and you fix him. You fix his face, you fix his eyes. Do whatever you damn well need to do to get him right again. And you damn well better not come tell me after the surgery that he's blind. You got that?"

Unsure of how to react to this change in Sam, Dr. Korpashan simply blinks and takes another step back. The legal instruction she's had keeps her from confirming or denying Sam his order to save Dean's eyesight. It's a promise she can't make - no matter how many times Sam threatens her.

Behind Korpashan, Reddig and Hartman have taken a stance one to either side of her shoulders, both now just as eager as Korpashan to escape the room. Reddig shows his true colors, a coward underneath the faux exterior of a wolf, as he lays downcast eyes to the floor and his feet. He can dish it out, but he can't take the heat. Hartman, on the other hand, seems unfazed by Sam's outburst. He steps forward, meeting Sam's gaze, and jumps to his fellow doctor's defense.

"Sam, Dr. Korpashan is going to do everything she possibly can to save Dean's eyesight," Hartman says in a low, soothing voice. "Dr. Reddig and I will be in the OR with her. We're all going to fight for this to be a success."

The fight has already left Sam - come and gone in a flash of _What the fuck am I doing?_, and he breathes away the angst of having just threatened the very doctors that will hold his brother's life in their hands. This isn't him. He's not the fighter, the instigator - Dean is. He sighs, hands coming up to cover his face before slowly sliding away. "You're right. I'm sorry," Sam says in a weak voice. "It's just–"

"We understand," Dr. Korpashan says, her voice back to it's soft confidence that had Sam trusting her when they first met. "You're scared for your brother. You want him to be whole again. We get it."

Sam nods.

"We will do what we can. That much I can promise you." Patting Sam on the arm, Dr. Korpashan walks past him and begins to lead to team from the room. "We need to explain this to Dean, now. You will have to remain calm - for him."

"I can do that," Sam assures as he follows the doctors out of the room.

And he does.

Dean is still too tired, too drugged, to fully comprehend the information that is fed to him several minutes later. He gets that he will be in surgery, and that it has something to do with the pain in his face and eyes. That's all Sam feels Dean needs to know - forcing him to understand the exact details will not change the fact that the surgery will happen. And as childlike as the medicine and weakness are making Dean out to be, discussing the possibility of permanent damage is not something Sam wants to do. He glosses over it when Dr. Korpashan issues that warning to his whimpering brother, quickly changing the subject and trying to instill confidence and hope.

The surgeons all seem to get the point, and they leave soon afterward, telling the brothers to get some rest, that they would be seeing them bright and early the next morning. Sam ushers them from the room only to find that Dean is already asleep before he can even think about issuing words of comfort about the impending surgery.

Dean sleeps through the rest of the night, waking for only seconds a few times during the night, and going right back to sleep at Sam's reassuring words. But Sam does not sleep at all, and his words are just that - words. They may work on Dean, too far into a haze to hear the apprehension that sits just on the edge, but Sam finds it hard to embrace the reassurances. He's nervous and uncertain of the outcome, and is already looking ahead to a future with a blind Dean despite the mental kicks of _Don't think like that, you bastard, _that he tries to yield on his overtaxed mind.

When they return Dean to the room after surgery Sam is off in the corner waiting, tapping his foot nervously and constantly checking his watch. He jumps up the second he sees the corner of the gurney clear the doorway, and crosses the room to Dean's side.

"How'd it go?" Sam asks anxiously, addressing the two nurses, orderly, and two doctors that are all following Dean and his gurney into the room. His brother's face is noticeably puffy and swollen beneath the mesh gauze they have wrapped around the upper portion of his face for breathability, but the blisters are now gone, replaced now by a series of intricate stitches so tiny Sam has to squint to see them. Dean's eyes are still fully covered by cotton gauze, so Sam can't see how they now look, and the expression Dr. Korpashan wears on her face is so veiled he has no idea what to expect.

"He's going to be a bit groggy for a while, but he came through the surgery with flying colors." She says, putting on a tight smile. The calm in her voice seems forced, as though she's hiding something.

"That's good then, right?" Sam begs, too afraid to ask anything different. "He'll be okay then? He can see?"

"Let's go out in the hall," Dr. Korpashan says, nodding to the nurses and orderly to tell them to stay. "We can talk while they get Dean settled back into bed." Sam follows her out the door, fidgeting nervously with the hem of his shirt. Dr. Reddig follows both of them.

No sooner has the door closed then Sam is demanding answers, eyes darting nervously between the two doctors. He wants the good news to come from Dr. Korpashan. Dean can live with a few scars; he can't live with being blind.

But if Sam is honest with himself he knows how this conversation will play out. And it's not long before he hears it exactly as he expects it.

"I think Dean's face will heal just fine," Dr. Reddig announces proudly. He might be a little sore for a few days where we removed tissue from his thigh and hip to place it on his face, but there should be minimal scarring in either location."

"Thank you." Sam sighs in relief before looking expectantly to Korpashan, waiting for similar news.

She shakes her head. "I'm sorry, Sam. I tried everything I could, but the damage is just too severe. With luck, Dean will be able to distinguish between light and dark. But he won't ever see again. I'm so sorry."

The words slam into Sam like a kick to the solar plexis. He gasps in a quick breath, hugging his arms to his waist, before sinking bonelessly to the ground. The only thing that saves him from complete collapse is the wall behind him and Dr. Reddig's quick grasp of his arm. His vision spins, mouth goes dry, and before he knows it he's fending off dry heaves from a stomach that hasn't held food in well over 24 hours.

"No!" he cries, simple as that. As though pleading for a reprieve from the situation might reverse the words and bring everything back to the way it was. Bring Dean back to the way he was.

"This isn't the end of the world for him, Sam."

Feeling a hand on his shoulder, Sam looks up to see Dr. Korpashan crouched down beside him, imploring eyes looking him straight on. He has to give her credit for the genuineness that emotes from her small frame - it's clear that she feels just as bad over not being able to help her young patient as Sam feels over the news. But that doesn't make it any better in the long run. Her feeling bad doesn't make Dean see.

"We will set Dean up in a rehabilitation hospital," she continues, unaware that her words are barely sinking in. "You will be surprised at how quickly the other senses begin to enhance when one is gone. Dean will be up and around, and almost as self-sufficient as he used to be. He'll be back to his old self in no time."

Sam lets out a hysterical snort, but quickly reels it in. He can't let the doctor know what he's thinking, can't let her realize just how much is about to change in their lives. _How does he drive his car if he can't see? How does he learn the layout of our motel rooms? We move around so much. And playing pool? Poker? Not to mention the hunt. _

"I can tell how much you care about your brother, Sam. I have no doubt that you'll be there for him every step of the way. And that's half the battle, now isn't it?"

"I can't do this right now," Sam snaps, standing quickly and not caring that his sudden movement has made the woman doctor tip backwards in her haste to get out of his way. "I can't talk about this right now. I need to see my brother."

He doesn't wait for permission, just pushes through the wide door to Dean's room and shoves his way past the group in the room. Behind him, Dr. Korpashan and Dr. Reddig follow tentatively behind, motioning for the nurses and the orderly to back off. They are stiff and uncertain as they wait to see what Sam will do, breath held in anticipation of a meltdown.

"Dean. Dean, it's Sam, can you hear me?" In stark contrast to the out of control storm cloud that crossed the room mere seconds earlier, as soon as Sam reaches Dean he is the picture of calm and reserved. His hand brushed gently through his brother's greasy, unwashed hair, easily levering over the newly repaired flesh a few inches below.

In the bed, Dean shifts just a bit but doesn't reply. His fingers twitch, and Sam reaches down to grab one hand within his own. He squeezes gently.

"Dean, I know you're still sleepy from the surgery. You just rest. Relax. I'll be here when you wake up. We'll fix this, Dean. I promise we'll fix this."

Proximity to his brother gives Sam strength that he often lacks when they are separated. The newfound touch he's established, despite Dean's weakness, gives Sam the confidence to once again face the two doctors that have yet to speak.

"Is there anything else I should know?" he finally asks. His eyes speak the words he can't say: _Don't tell me more than I can handle right now._

"Only that your brother is being weaned slowly from the heavy pain killers to a much milder form now that much of the damage has been removed or repaired," Reddig says. "He should be waking up from the effects of the sedatives within the next few hours, and will be much more lucid than he was before - still tired, but more aware."

"That's good." Sam nods, only cringing internally at knowledge of the conversation he doesn't want to hold with a brother who won't want to hear it. "I want to be the one to give him this news."

Both doctor's nod in agreement, but it's Korpashan who speaks. "He will have questions, Sam. And fears. There will be answers you can't give him. If you need anything - please have us paged. We can be here in a matter of minutes."

"If I feel we need either of you for something, you'll know." Sam says coldly. Right now, he's feeling as though they really haven't contributed anything to Dean's recovery - Korpashan in particular - and the questions he figures Dean will ask can't be answered by a doctor. He doesn't see them needing either of the two doctors in front of him. They're well past modern medicine, now. Now, Dean needs a miracle.

**_So here's a question to ponder - Between this story and the deaf Dean story (that will be written eventually) I plan to keep him maimed in one and to cure him in the other. I need to know your preference on that one so I have an idea where to take this. When making your decision, keep in mind that I will find some way to adapt Dean's abilities so he can still do most of what he used to do, regardless of which injury remains. So think about which you think would be more fun to follow and which you would prefer he be healed from and let me know! Thanks bunches guys..._**


	3. Chapter 3

**_Hi again, you wonderful readers. I'm overwhelmed at the response to this story. You have no idea how ecstatic I am that so many of you are enjoying this story. Thank you, thank you, thank you! I really appreciate your response to the question from last chapter, too. FYI - I know what I will do with this story, but I'm going to keep it to myself in an effort to keep the end result of at least one story secret. Enjoy the next installment. And as always, reviews are love!_**

Dean comes fully awake just before dinner time, startling at the sound of the clanging carts being pushed down the hallway. One of the nurses has made arrangements for a tray to be brought to Dean, but he refuses to eat it, unwilling to be fed by someone else even in his still half groggy state. Finally, Sam gives up pushing the food on him and proceeds to swirl it around the plate for several minutes before taking a few bites of it himself. He hadn't realized just how hungry he's been.

They sit in silence through an IV change, and then longer still through a nurse changing the bandages around Dean's eyes. Dean waits until after the nurse leaves the room before he makes a comment.

"I guess the surgery failed," Dean whispers, so quiet Sam isn't sure he heard right.

"What, Dean?" Sam leans in closer to his brother, breath hitched and hands clenched. He hopes he didn't hear what he thinks he did.

"The surgery," Dean repeats, only slightly louder. "I still can't see."

Holding back a grimace, in spite of the fact that Dean can't see it, Sam stops breathing entirely. He's been over this conversation a thousand times in his head since early that afternoon, yet he still never was able to fully wrap his mind around it. Pretending everything is fine, ignoring the giant white elephant in the room, seemed to be working just fine for him. Until now...

"Dean, it's...you just...give it some time." He can't bring himself to look at his brother. Instead, he stands and begins pacing the room, mentally berating himself for being unable to remain strong in the face of such adversity. _Dean needs you, you ass. Get it together._

"What did the doctors say, Sam?"

Sam looks over at his brother, sees the slight cock of his head as he tries to follow the sound of Sam's footsteps, tries to figure out where his brother is in the room. His aim is slightly off, looking just to the left of where Sam stands. At this point Dean doesn't seem angry or frustrated - it's too early in the game for that - but he does seem weak and frail, like a small child missing his teddy bear.

"The scarring on your face will be very minimal," Sam replies, making every effort to discuss only the upsides to the surgery in hopes that Dean won't notice that he's omitted the biggest part. "The skin grafts seem to have taken. Dr. Reddig's work is impeccable, Dean. Better than I can do, that's for sure."

"You never were the greatest with a needle and thread, Sammy-boy. I could out-stitch you every day of the week."

"It's a wonder I wasn't a master at it, seeing as how you were always the one getting sliced up," Sam says, forcing humor as he goes along with Dean's line of ribbing.

"Someone had to protect your scrawny ass. If you weren't such a demon magnet maybe I wouldn't have gotten hurt so many times trying to save you." He pauses, then adds, "So my beauty is still intact."

"If you could call it beauty," Sam quips. "Let's just say you're not any uglier than you ever were."

Dean nods thoughtfully. He chews on his bottom lip and fidgets with the sheets as he waits for Sam to continue. For several minutes all that answers is an uncomfortable silence until Dean is once again forced to take the lead. "What about my eyes, Sam?"

"Huh? Your eyes?"

Dean sighs. He can tell where this is going, and he doesn't like it. "Yes, Sam, my eyes. What did the doctors say about my eyes?"

"They don't know what we know, Dean," Sam hastily replies, responding with what is clearly a non-answer.

That in itself gives Dean the answer he fears, but he pushes anyway. _Until Sam says it, it's not true. It can't be true._ "Sam," he says in a low, warning growl. He hears his brother jump, hears the deep intake of breath.

"Please, Dean, just trust me. I can fix this. I can make it right."

"Fix what, Sam? What did they say?"

"Nothing, Dean," Sam says, voice thick with exasperation and desperation alike. "They didn't say anything important. It's not true. We can fix it. We have contacts, people we can call."

"I don't want you calling anyone, Sam. I want you to tell me what the doctors said about my eyes. When will I see again?"

Another deadly silence fills the air. Dean can feel the suffocating thickness that comes with dread. He knows this is it, that Sam is finally about to tell him what he's demanding to know, and suddenly he isn't quite sure he wants to hear it."

"Never," Sam forces out in a hoarse whisper.

He can hear his baby brother's voice hitch, and wonders if maybe he's crying. _Nah, not Sammy_, Dean convinces himself. _Winchester's don't cry._ So why then, is there such a tightening in his own chest at the single word coming from his brother's mouth.

"They said there was just too much scarring, that the damage went too deep. Dr. Korpashan said if you're lucky you might be able to distinguish between shades of light and dark, but you won't ever see again."

And boy, when Sammy finally opens up he really opens up. Never, would have sufficed for Dean. He doesn't need to hear the rest. Doesn't need the clinical explanation that closes the coffin lid on his hopes to be normal again, someday. Now that he knows what Sam didn't want to tell him, Dean can understand why it was so important for Sam to grasp onto the little bit of hope - of their supernatural insight - to keep spirits up.

"We'll get a second opinion," Sam says, just as Dean slumps against the mattress of the bed in defeat. "A third, a fourth. I think I remember Dad mentioning a shaman in his journal. We could look him up - maybe he could help."

"Yeah, maybe," Dean says half-heartedly. The gears in his mind are already spinning, considering the ramifications of being blind, of being a blind hunter. It's too much of a liability. He's not safe if he can't see his attackers, _Sam_ is not safe without him there to watch his back. The lives they lead require perfection, and the scariest part of all is that the Winchester's are hunted as much as they are hunters. Backing off and lying low is not an option granted to them.

"I promise, we're going to get through this, Dean. I'll call Bobby and Missouri - everyone we know. Someone has to have an answer."

"I don't want you calling them," Dean nearly growls. "I don't want you calling anyone."

"What? Why?" Sam asks in an almost childish whine.

"Just– Please, Sam, don't call them. I don't want anyone to know."

Sam opens his mouth to question once again, but stops himself. He doesn't know the exact reasoning behind Dean's request, but he's got ideas. And it's not really such a bad thing to grant Dean's request. At least for now. He doesn't have to promise not to do it forever, and maybe in the future he'll be better able to establish Dean's reasoning. "Alright, Dean. I won't call them now. But I'm still going to do everything in my power to fix this. That's a promise."

* * *

The day after Dean comes fully lucid is more of the same: silence, silence, and more silence. It nearly drives Sam to insanity, yet he's doing no better at creating conversation than Dean. He's tried to talk, but not about anything Dean wants to discuss.

The problem is that Sam wants to talk about a cure, but after a long conversation with Dr. Korpashan the night before Dean is no longer willing to embrace the idea. He's too afraid of being let down, discovering once and for all that he will never see again. It's easier to pretend there aren't options; it keeps him from worrying that any option will end in failure.

Dean, on the other hand, has been trying all morning to convince Sam to leave him behind, that it's no longer safe to be around him. "I can't protect you, Sam," Dean has said too many times to count, to which Sam replies, "I don't need your protection. I do just fine on my own." But it's not enough, for either of them. Neither is happy with what the other has resigned himself to thinking.

So Dean shoots down all of Sam's attempts to discuss cures, and Sam, in turn, shoots down all of Dean's attempts at pushing him away, until ultimately the day results in complete and utter silence.

"I'm going for a walk," Sam finally says. Dean has no idea what time it is, but he knows it's sometime after lunch. "Will you be alright here by yourself?"

Sam scrutinizes his brother, looking for signs of insecurity and finds a whole slew of them. Dean hasn't relaxed since he became fully cognizant of his infirmity. The head of the bed sits at an almost ninety degree angle, yet Dean refuses to lean back against it. His hands grip the corners of he sheet so tightly his knuckles are white with the effort, legs poised and ready as though he's just waiting for a need to bolt from the bed to safety. Dean's head has not stopped moving despite the obvious pain the spastic jerks of motion as he turns in the direction of the slightest sounds causes to the fresh stitches. He keeps his breathing even and shallow, a hunters trick to magnify surrounding sounds and keep his own breaths from muffling them.

Yet, regardless of the clear tells Dean lets off Sam finds himself unable to sit in the room any longer. He needs a chance to regroup, an opportunity to think about what he's pushing on his brother, the options they have. He needs to figure out a better way to present the options so that Dean won't shut them down before they can even take tangible form. Sam knows his brother is scared and hurting and completely uncertain of the future, but right now he's about ready to tear him a new one for not being willing to fight back.

Dean stiffens at Sam's announcement, but forces a calm facade in his words. "Could you bring me a coffee when you return?"

Realizing the request for what it is, Dean's calculated attempt at telling Sam not to be gone too long, Sam nods. Then realizes that Dean can't see him nod, and kicks himself mentally - again. "Coffee it is," Sam croaks. "I'll be back soon."

For a minute Sam's hand hovers over Dean's shoulder, but he can't bring himself to complete the touch. It was one thing when Dean was so out of it from the drugs; that touch was about the only thing keeping his brother grounded. But now he's lucid, and solid comfort is not the Winchester way. Finally, Sam drops his hand to his side and repeats, "I'll be back," before stepping from the room and leaving Dean alone.

Guilt immediately embraces Sam for being so selfish as to leave his blind brother alone and helpless. For a minute Sam debates on turning right back around and returning to Dean's side. But his stubbornness wins out. That, and the fact that Sam knows clearing his mind is the only thing that will make the rest of this bearable. Right now, he can trust the nurses on the floor to care for Dean. But once they leave the hospital it will be all Sam, all the time. There will be no more opportunity to be alone, to slip out and know that Dean will be okay. So Sam forces himself to walk away from the room, off the floor, out of the building entirely.

Getting to the Impala, Sam climbs in and just sits, thinks. It's snowing outside and he pulls the collar of his jacket around his neck as he watches the steady fall of crisp white flakes floating from the sky to build up on the hood of the car and the ground surrounding it. He's not yet been willing to discuss with the doctors the exact ramifications of Dean's blindness, but that doesn't stop him from thinking up ideas of his own.

Dean being blind means his brother can't drive his car anymore, can't wield a gun, can't earn them money in the ways he's become accustomed. Navigating hotel rooms will be a complicated task, but then again, their days of hunting might as well be over anyway, so maybe they'll have to settle down somewhere. Sam can find a job - a legitimate job - and they can settle into a small house. He knows Dean won't like that, but what other choice do they have?

Once again Sam considers calling Missouri or Bobby. He feels so lost and alone right now, needs a friendly voice to tell him everything will be alright. But ultimately it's a selfish desire, and one that he can't force himself to break his promise to Dean for.

When he finally decides to head back inside he's freezing from the cold temperature, fingers like ice, but he's really not feeling all that much clearer mentally. Sam has come up with a whole encyclopedia's worth of 'what if's' and 'how to's,' but still has no facts, has made no firm decisions. The only thing Sam really knows is what not to do, not to call their friends, not to leave Dean alone no matter how much he insists on it, not to give up.

It's been over an hour since Sam left, but he still stops at the cafeteria for the coffee he's promised Dean. _Gotta make this look real. I didn't just up and leave him_. He gets two large mugs of freshly brewed gut rot and it burns his hands through the too-thin cardboard cups as he rides the elevator to his brother's floor.

Struggling with the door while juggling the two cups of coffee Sam finally manages to push it open and then stands there in the open doorway watching his brother. Dean appears to be asleep, chest rising and falling gently in his light doze. He's on his side, one arm slipped under the pillow beneath his head, the other resting in front of him.

Sam hesitates before entering, then tiptoes quietly into the room, setting the steaming coffees on the small dresser beside the bathroom door before making his way over to Dean. He hesitates for a minute, then his hand comes out to stroke Dean's hair.

Sam barely touches Dean when his brother's hand reaches up and grabs Sam by the wrist, pulling him down as the other arm snakes out around his body. Dean has a plastic knife clutched in his right hand that is now pressed firmly against Sam's neck, bruising the area near his carotid artery.

"Who are you? What do you want?" Dean growls, jerking at Sam as he adjusts his grip.

"De–" Sam rasps out, voice barely above a whisper. "Dean, it's Sam. It's Sam! Please, Dean."

"Sammy?" Dean whimpers in a very un-Dean-like voice. He relaxes almost immediately, dropping the knife from his now limp grip. His hands tremble as he scrambles to sit up straighter in the bed.

"I'm sorry, Sam. God, I'm sorry. Where–" He jerks his head around spastically, trying in vain to find his brother. But even if he could see, the gauze wrapped around his eyes prevents it.

"I'm right here, Dean," Sam says. He's panting, his own hands shaking, as he sits beside Dean, knee to knee. All he can think is _Thank God it was me who came in and not some nurse. He could have killed someone._

"Sam, I– I didn't– I could have–" Dean knows it, too. And he's just as scared as Sam.

"Yeah, Dean, I know. I know. It's okay, now, though. I've gotcha. I'm here."

"I don't want to be blind," Dean moans, leaning heavily into Sam. "I can't live like this."

"I know, Dean. I know. We'll fix this."

* * *

After that, Sam makes a point to enter the room slowly, sure to announce his presence before he is anywhere near Dean. He clears his throat, scuffs his feet, and finally speaks his brother's name before ever leaving the safety of the doorway. Dean jumps anyway.

But at least Sam is safe.

"Hey bro, it's just me," Sam says softly. He pulls the chair up to the bed and sits down, studying his brother's movements. Dean seems to relax a bit at Sam's presence, but he's still stiff and unsure of himself. His hands grip the blanket on either side of the bed, head turning toward any sound he hears despite the fact that he can't see them, and he never fully sits back against the bed despite the fact that it is in its most vertical position.

"Time is it?" Dean mumbles in response. He's become time obsessed in the last few days, asks the question dozens of times in the course of an afternoon.

"Little after three," Sam replies.

"And it's Sunday?"

"Yeah, Dean. It's Sunday."

"It's been five days?"

"Yes. You've been here since Tuesday. Actually, I think the doctors are going to come talk to us today about moving you to rehab."

"Don't think I want to go to rehab. Just want to get back to normal." Dean's voice is so weak, his posture so insecure. He's gotten progressively worse in the last few days, quickly losing his stubborn defiance only to be replaced by terrified innocence.

It's not that he's any more willing to accept help; quite the opposite really, as he spends more and more time pushing Sam and the hospital staff away. But he's still not his usual self. Not by a long shot.

Dean spends his days sitting rigidly on his bed. He refuses to move. Sam has offered to take him for a walk down the hall several times to no avail, and even getting Dean to make a trip to the bathroom is like pulling teeth. He doesn't eat, instead simply picks at the finger food placed in front of him, and barely drinks. The slightest sound makes Dean startle, people brushing too close to him makes him flinch. An orderly dropped a tray outside his room the other day and Dean nearly jumped out of his skin, refusing to relax until he was convinced that Sam was alright. He still talks to Sam, but it's short and succinct, to the point only. And they don't talk about his eyes.

The bandages have been removed and changed several more times in the past week, his eyes poked and prodded, tests performed. And it's led only to the conclusive evidence that Dean is permanently blinded in both eyes. He's sensitive to light, and the doctors have already told Sam to buy him a pair of dark glasses for when the bandages are permanently removed. Dean knows the glasses now sit on the bedside table, Oakley's - _Only the best for my brother_, Sam said. Yet all Dean can think about is _how did Sam come up with the money to pay for the glasses?_ There has never been any question about who was the better card shark, the better pool hustler. Those just were never things Sam did well. And now they are things Dean will never do again.

Sam's heart nears the breaking point when Dean tells him he wants to get back to normal, because he knows Dean will never see _that_ normal again. The normal life that Dean has led as a hunter, life on the road, hustling for money, picking up girls, 'saving people, hunting things, the family business,' is a thing of the past. Sam is certain they'll create a new normal, but it will never be the same. This new normal is sure to include obstacles, a few he can already figure out and a ton more they haven't even discovered yet. Rehab is really the only option the brothers have at discovering the best normal available to them.

"I know you don't want to go," Sam says in a placating tone. "But I need you to give it a try. For me."

"For you?"

"Yeah, Dean. Please? I need to understand this as much as you do. I'll be learning, too."

A short pause. "Alright, Sam. I'll go."

It's the easiest Dean has ever given in to something, and that scares Sam more than the void of unknowns they're about to face.

Less than an hour later Dean's room is overrun by doctors and nurses as they convene to remove bandages once and for all, and to discuss options for the future. The scars on Dean's face are healing nicely, just a series of pink lines after Dr. Reddig removes the stitches, and Sam has no doubt they will fade to almost nothing in the coming weeks. The pleased look on Reddig's face seems to confirm those thoughts.

Dr. Korpashan then presents the brothers - Sam, specifically - with a stack of pamphlets discussing rehabilitation centers. There is one in particular that she seems to be pushing, and has already called them to determine an opening. "They will be ready for you tomorrow, if you like," she urges, tapping the pamphlet that corresponds with this particular location.

Sam looks down at the colorful cover on the thick pamphlet proclaiming **The Claude March Rehabilitation Center for the Blind.** On the front are several candid photos of therapists and patients in various stages of therapy, and beneath the bold faced letters are tiny bumps raised on the page. _Braille_, he realizes. A knot forms in his throat and he gulps it down before it manages to take hold of his emotions.

Looking over at Dean, face now uncovered as his scarred, sightless eyes roam with no destination in the dim light of the room, Sam realizes that his brother has yet to speak. Chances are he won't until they are alone. And this is definitely something he needs to discuss with his brother before they make any decisions.

"Can you give us a few minutes to discuss this?" Sam asks the doctors, eyes shifting to the door in case his words don't get the point across.

If anything, Dr. Reddig is intuitive, and he quickly stands with a slight tug on Dr. Korpashan's shoulder. "Of course. It's a big decision. We'll go."

"Please call me when you have made a decision," Korpashan adds as she follows her colleague out the door, leaving Sam and Dean alone.

Sam waits only as long as it takes to close the door before he's addressing Dean. "It looks like a good facility, bro. Should give you everything you need to get back on your feet."

"Do I have to stay there overnight?"

Sam swallows as he watches Dean's unseeing eyes dart in search of Sam's voice. They rest on his shoulder, just off enough to remind him that Dean can't see, to make it all that much more true. "For a while," he finally says. "But not forever."

"Tell me I can leave when I want to," Dean says firmly, a hint of his old self peeking through.

"What?" Sam seems caught off guard by the question, as though he's not entirely sure what Dean means.

"The rehab center," Dean repeats. "I'll go, but only on the condition that I get to leave when I want to. If I don't like it, if it's not working out, you take me out of there the minute I say."

Sam freezes for a minute, contemplating the deal Dean is proposing. He knows it's a bad idea, too much power on his brother's shoulders. But how can he deny him that one wish? Finally, hesitantly, Sam nods, his neck rubbing against the collar of his shirt.

"Are you nodding, Sam?" Dean demands, a scowl on his face. "Cause I can't see you nodding, you jerk."

A snort, then Sam says aloud, "Yeah Dean, you've got yourself a deal. But I've got a condition of my own."

"Yeah? What's that?"

"You have to try," Sam says sternly. He stands, faces Dean, and plants his big hands one on each of his brother's shoulders for emphasis. "I don't want you sitting like a lump on your bed for days at a time, not trying, and then tell me you're ready to go. You have to actually put forth an effort at therapy or it's no deal."

Dean takes a minute to mull over the deal Sam has laid out on the table, chewing on his bottom lip in contemplation. But finally he, too, nods tentatively. "Alright, you've got a deal. But there's one more thing."

"Alright," Sam laughs, thinking this 'one more thing' ruse could go on forever. "Lay it on me, bro."

"You take me there. No ambulance transport or hospital shuttle, and no hospital staff riding shotgun. Just you, me, and the Impala taking a nice long detour to this place. No hurry to get there."

Sam doesn't even have to think about that one. It's an easy request, and one that assures Sam his brother is still in there, buried beneath a wall of hurt and uncertainty. Dean is trying to break free, and he's more than willing to encourage that.


	4. Chapter 4

**_Here we go again guys - and once again you all are awesome. FYI, I had never intended to write a road trip into the space between the last chapter and this one, it just seemed like a logical stopping point. However, I can assure you there there will be plenty of time on the road in the upcoming chapters. Hopefully that won't disappoint too much. Enjoy! And as always, remember reviews are like puppy treats - they keep me eager to perform!_**

Dean lasts a week in the rehab facility. Which is, to be fair, six days and twenty-three hours longer than Sam expected him to last, but still a good twelve weeks-plus shorter than he should have stayed.

He remains true to his word, accepting the help that the therapists offer and making a noble effort to learn everything there is to learn in spite of his disgust at how helpless it makes him feel. On the days when Sam has time to watch Dean from afar he actually has to give his brother credit for the amount of effort he's putting in; it's clear that he wants to become as self-sufficient as possible.

Rehab is all about learning new ways to do old tasks. It's about determining ways of recognizing items that otherwise would be indistinguishable now. In his wallet now are five dollar bills folded in half lengthwise, tens widthwise and twenty's folded lengthwise then widthwise so he can tell the difference. He learns a system, like the face of a clock, to establish positioning of his food and general household items. Meat goes at 6:00, vegetable at 3:00, starch at 9:00. Cups always sit at 1:00, just above the dinner plate.

They give Dean the traditional white cane the second day he's there and immediately set him loose in the halls with one of the therapists. He's slow and hesitant, gets frustrated easily, and stumbles often despite the fact that there is nothing in front of him. Dean makes a point of keeping one hand on the wall at his side, which the therapist says is okay for orientation, and keeps the other extended forward, gripping tightly to the handle of the cane, as he taps out his destination. The cane moves in a swinging arc, seeking out any obstructions that might trip him up. He feels ridiculous doing it, but can come up with no other alternative.

He is taught to count his steps for frequent destinations. 12 steps from the head of his bed to the bathroom, 8 to the bedroom door, from the his door to the dining hall is 74 and another 16 to the table that he always sits at with Sam. Family is allowed to come and go as they please, but the hesitant way Dean always asks 'so I'll see you at lunch? (Or breakfast, or dinner)' ensures that Sam is always there.

He hasn't made any other friends, refuses to talk to anyone beyond what they insist upon in group therapy sessions, and stays in his room or with Sam during free time. A few of the patients have tried to engage Dean in discussions, and some have even gone so far as to invite him for games or to listen to the TV, but he always adopts a polite smile (not that any of them can see it anymore than he can) and excuses himself to his room, tapping out the steps as he inches along.

There are simple solutions for identifying objects that are Dean's, and not Sam's, or identifying like shaped objects. A rubberband goes around the handle of his toothbrush to distinguish it from Sam's, and another around the handle of his razor. One band goes around the shampoo, two around the conditioner to tell the two bottles apart.

Dean's therapist tells him eventually he can learn braille and use it to label most household items, but Dean can't think of many things left in their small collection of belongings that will need to be labeled. He can just see Sam pulling out the braille labels for _machete, Rugger, rifle, holy water, crossbow_. No, Dean's days of wielding their cache of weapons is now over, which significantly lowers the number of possessions he has to distinguish between.

All things considered, Dean is doing relatively well in the rehab hospital. So it surprises Sam the morning he shows up to find Dean stumbling around his room, collecting the neatly put away clothes from the dresser and tossing them haphazardly into his duffle.

"Dean, what the hell do you think you're doing?" Sam demands, crossing the room and bracing his hands on Dean's shoulders. "Where are you going?"

"I'm leaving, Sam. You told me we could go on my terms. You said I had to give this a try, but that I could go when I was ready. I'm ready, Sam. I want to leave."

"Alright, alright. But what happened, Dean? Why now?"

"Sam, I just want to go. Please."

"I said we would," Sam says, "But I just want to know why. You were doing so well. What changed?"

Hands splayed out in front of him, Dean finds the edge of the bed and sits, defeat plastered on his face. "I've learned everything they can teach me here. The rest, I want to learn with you."

Sam sighs, clearly frustrated by the series of non answers that Dean is throwing at him. There is so much more to learn. Dean has only breached the tip of the iceberg. "You're scared of something."

"I'm not scared," Dean snaps a little too hastily.

"Oh you're not, huh?"

"No! I just...I'm just tired of being here. I don't like it. I don't feel safe."

A part of that seems logical, and Sam backs off for a fraction of a second before he storms ahead, knowing that's not the only reason Dean is running. "What else, Dean? I know there's more. Tell me."

There is a heavy silence that falls upon the room for a minute as Dean gathers up the courage to admit the real reason he wants to leave. "They want to parade us around like freaks," he finally says, voice lowered, shoulders slumped. If he could see, he would be staring down at his hands, watching the fingers twine around each other nervously.

"What?" Sam's initial reaction is to be livid with the facility. _What the hell are they thinking?_ But there must be more to this. They've been nothing but supportive and patient, certainly not in the habit of screwing with their patients' minds. "What are you talking about?"

Dean sighs and seems to deflate even more. "Today is supposed to be a field trip. They're taking everyone out to the center of town and expect us to work on what we've learned."

"What's so wrong with that?"

"What's not wrong with it, Sam? Everyone will be looking at us, feeling sorry for us. They'll know..."

And there it is. The unspoken words mixed in with everything else. Not _us_, _me. _Everyone will be looking at _me_, feeling sorry for _me_. Dean is terrified of making a spectacle of himself in public, of calling attention to himself and his disability. Winchester's live in the shadows, they blend in. They don't stick out like sore thumbs in public. And it doesn't help that Dean is still a wanted man, by humans and demons alike. Sam may have managed to get him out of the deal he made for his life, but that doesn't mean they fell off the supernatural radar.

"So, be honest with me," Sam says. "If I take you out of here, are you still going to work with me to learn everything you haven't mastered yet? Are you going to let me help you? Or are you going to go back to hiding out in a hotel room? Cause I gotta tell you, bro, you may not want to go out there with the rest of the group but that doesn't mean I'm letting you avoid it entirely."

"I just don't want to be _so_ obvious," Dean insists. "There's too many of us. We'll be some kind of freak show out there. Too visible. Too vulnerable."

It doesn't seem fair that Dean has to put his recovery on the line because of what he hunts - and what hunts him. But Sam sees no other alternative; Dean is right, he can't be so conspicuous.

"Alright, Dean, we'll go. Let me just tell your therapists and I'll come back and get you. Finish packing."

Dean stiffens. "What are you going to tell them?" _I'm too much of a target? I'm a little wuss that can't go outside without his blankie? What, Sam?_

"I'll think of something," Sam assures Dean in a way that tells the older hunter the truth - whatever it is - will be nowhere near the story Sam is about to weave.

Twenty minutes later the therapists are frustrated and disappointed that they can't change Sam's mind about taking his brother out of the facility. Sam has told them that their _dear Aunt Millie, from Utah, is ill and needs our help_, but the therapists can only see a piece of the picture. _Dean__needs help, too, _they insist to an unrelenting Sam. _He's not going to be able to help care for an old woman - he isn't even able to care for himself, yet._

"I'm sorry," Sam repeats over and over again as he removes himself from the room. "You guys have been great. I'll get Dean enrolled in another program as soon as we get where we're going." It's an all out lie, but somehow they finally accept it. _As long as Dean gets help._ And he will - Sam will help him.

Sam has to walk past the lobby to get back to Dean's room, which is lucky because that's where he finds his brother, sunglasses prominently displayed on his face, bag slung up over his shoulder as he feels along the wall for the exit. For the most part he knows his way around the interior of the facility, but as Sam watches his brother he realizes that save for the ride from the hospital to here Dean hasn't been outside since he was blinded. He can't even find the door to get outside, and Sam knows it will be so much worse once he's actually out there.

"You got everything?" Sam asks, swallowing down the feelings of trepidation in his gut. _Dean may think he's ready for this, but I'm not sure I am._

Snorting humorlessly, Dean shrugs and hands his bag over to Sam. "Think so. Your guess is as good as mine."

It certainly doesn't make Sam feel any better, and he has to suppress the urge to tell Dean to wait there as he runs back to check the room for any items left behind. But it's a can of worms Sam knows better than to open, so instead he takes Dean by the shoulders and points him in the direction of the exit.

"Let's blow this popsicle stand then, bro."

* * *

The air is brisk and gloomy, snow obviously on the horizon, as Sam pulls the Impala into the parking space in front of the same room he's been staying in for two weeks. He wonders how much time they have left on _Kristoff Froulein's_ visa gold before they have to be on their way, but the thought is fleeting as his eyes fall to his brother's fingers scrabbling for the door handle. Sam is up and out of the car in an instant, hurrying to Dean's side just as his brother gets the door open and starts to pull himself from the vehicle.

"Watch your head there, bro," Sam says nonchalantly as he slides his hand between the small gap between the door frame and the crown of Dean's head. "Here, let me help you." Once Dean is out of the car Sam immediately shifts his hold to his brother's shoulders.

"Dude, get off me," Dean snaps almost immediately. He shrugs out of Sam's grasp but remains rigid against the car, one hand holding on tight to the roof - his only form of orientation.

Sam jumps back, clearly stung by Dean's harshness, and tries to figure out what has happened in the short period of time between the rehab facility and the motel. But he can't think of a thing. They didn't talk, but that's not altogether unusual. Dean had allowed himself to be led to the car and slipped inside without complaint, hands fumbling a minute with the seatbelt until he was successful. Sam had put in one of his favorite Metallica tapes and made a point to drive the car extra gentle, knowing that - blind or not - Dean would feel every pothole he drove through and every ounce of unnecessary torque he put on the engine. At one point Sam had looked over to find Dean's hands ghosting across the dashboard, feeling out all the knobs and buttons and crevices, all the idiosyncracies that made up _his_ car. But that hadn't led to any arguments, and Sam is at a loss for anything that might have affected Dean enough to make him shrug off Sam's help out of the blue.

"I'm just trying to get you to the room," Sam finally says, forcing himself to keep his voice to an even, non-threatening, tone.

"Yeah, well, I don't–" Dean comes to a dead stop as he realizes what he's about to say is no longer true. _Damn it, Dean. You're such a loser. Of course you need Sam's help - you can't see to get inside the room. You don't even know where the room is. Stupid, blind loser!_ But he's hardly ready to admit that out loud. So instead, he covers with, "I don't need you manhandling me, sasquatch. Geez, quit being all grab-handy. I'm not gonna fall. Com'ere, gimme your arm."

Rolling his eyes, and grateful Dean can't see him do it, Sam steps to Dean's side and nudges him in the ribs with his elbow. Dean uses the contact to his advantage and slides his hand up Sam's arm until he's located the space just between Sam's elbow and shoulder, and rests his hand there.

"Alright, now lets go." He's gritting his teeth against the intense desire to just let go and find his own way. Or, even more, to reel back and punch his brother hard in the cheek, just to see if he still can. If he's still got it. But he holds it in. _It's Sammy, man. Your brother. You _don't_ want to hit your baby brother._

Once inside, Dean drops Sam's arm like a hot potato and waits for Sam to step around him. He can feel Sam hesitate, almost thinks he's going to have to order him to back off, but then there's a slight rustle of air as Sam silently stalks off. Two similar sounding thumps follow, spaced just seconds apart, and then another, louder thump and the sound of creaking springs before Sam speaks.

"Your bag's on the bed, the one closest to the door," he says softly from somewhere across the room. You need anything?"

"I'm good," Dean snaps, though he still has yet to move from the doorway. "Just...stay out of my way."

"Fine," Sam replies, voice edged with fatigue as he tries not to sound too anxious. "I'm on my bed, totally out of your way. Just um...please let me know if you, um, ya know–"

Dean waves Sam off with an air of irritation and takes his first hesitant shuffle-step forward. "I said I'm good, Sam. Please, just..." He growls instead of finishing the statement, hand hovering in the air, clenched in a fist. Finally lowering it, Dean steps in the general direction he assumes the bed to be in until finally his knees bump into the mattress and he loses his balance, catching himself with splayed out hands.

Covering for his clumsiness, Dean immediately starts groping for the duffle that Sam had thrown there. Finding it, Dean pulls it onto his shoulder and stands back up. "I'm gonna take a shower."

Sam grips the corners of the bed, ready to protest, but manages to hold it in. "Uh huh," he says instead, trying to remain cool and collected.

They may not have stayed in one place for very long, may have moved about the countryside like a family of desert nomads, but the one thing Dean can say for their lifestyle is that at least he knows the layout of a motel room. They all take on the same general shape and setup: Two beds, the first one just inside the door and the next spaced with enough distance to fit a small bedstand in between. The television will sit on a long dresser on the opposite wall from the beds and a wooden chair will have a home under the desk portion of the same structure. At the back of the room is the bathroom, usually along the same wall that the beds rest against, and that's where Dean heads.

Dean makes it as far as the TV before Sam sees the disaster in the making. He springs from the bed, shouting out a warning as he goes, but is too late to warn about the strap of the laptop case that lays looped in the middle of the floor. The toe of Dean's shoe slides through the loop just before he goes to take his next step, and the added pressure and confusion is enough to send him to his knees on the floor.

"Damn it, Sam!" Dean screams. He pounds his fist into the floor in frustration as Sam rushes to his aide.

"Shit, Dean, are you okay?" Sam demands, mother-hen complex coming to full force. He's got his hands under Dean's armpits within seconds, pulling him to his feet before Dean has an opportunity to protest.

"What the hell was that, Sam?"

Sam stutters. "I'm sorry. It was the shoulder strap to my laptop case. I should have moved it. I'm sorry."

"You can't leave stuff in my way, Sam!" Dean screams, arms flailing in every direction. "I can't see it. If I can't see it I trip on it. You can't do that!"

"Dean..."

"Damn it, Sam, just let it be. Leave _me_ be!" Once again latching onto his duffle, Dean jumps to his feet. In his rage he shoves the chair out of his way, sending it clattering to the ground before he stumbles forward towards where he hopes the bathroom is.

For once luck is on his side. He doesn't find the doorway gracefully, instead knocking his shoulder into the corner molding, but he still manages to slip inside the small room before Sam manages to recover from his stupor and chase after him.

"Dean, please," Sam calls just as Dean shuts the door, practically slamming it in little brother's face. "Dean."

Inside the bathroom Dean slumps against the door in defeat, legs sliding out from under him on his way to the floor. A lone tear slides down from Dean's sightless eyes. He jerks the sunglasses off his face and hurls them across the room, hears them hit the wall and fall to the floor, but has no idea what he's just hit. Angrily wiping away the moisture from his eyes and wincing against the pain that still flares from the healing scars on his face, Dean silently mouths his apologies to the brother he knows instinctually is on the other side, hurting as much as he is. _I'm sorry, Sammy. I can't do this. You need me to be strong for you, but I just can't. I'm sorry. I can't. _

It doesn't take sight for Dean to know that Sam is a basket case about his injury, knows his little brother is literally about to burst from all the emotion he's bottling up inside of him. That's Dean's forte - to bottle his emotions - he's used to hiding his true feelings behind a mask of humor and indifference. But Sam, Sam has always been the emo king, taking every opportunity available to him to talk things out and get his feelings off his chest. This time is no different, Dean knows. The only problem is that now there is no one for Sam to talk his feelings out with. Dean is in no shape to comfort little brother, and - _damn it - _he shouldn't have to. But that doesn't mean his heart isn't breaking for that fact.

Several minutes pass before Dean hears Sam's footsteps softly retreating from the bathroom door. That's enough to spur him to action. He really does want a shower, hopes the spray of hot water will be enough to wash away the feelings of insignificance and helplessness that have plagued him since the Klower demon took his sight.

His duffle is still sitting at his side, and without moving from his position on the floor Dean begins to root around inside until he finds what he needs. In his toiletry bag are shampoo (one rubber band), and conditioner (two rubber bands), face wash and soap. His hand glosses over his razor and he pauses. He can feel the three days old beard growth on his usually clean-shaven face and knows he needs to take care of that too. One of the nurses aides at the rehab facility (totally hot, by Sam's own admission), had helped Dean two different times and he had let her because of the scars on his face and the knowledge that slicing into them with a razor was not going to help in the healing process. But he'll be damned if he's going to ask Sam for help, and he's not quite sure it's a wise idea to test out his new shaving skills. So shaving will have to wait.

It is a small bathroom. Dean can literally reach out and touch everything - the toilet to his left, sink just beside that, and the tub on his right. Without even standing up he's able to place the shower supplies on a ledge of the tub, grab a towel (god, he hopes it's clean) from the racks above the door and set it on the closed toilet lid before stripping down to his birthday suit and climbing into the shower.

Within the confines of the shower it's as if Dean never lost his sight. He's used to doing much of his routine with his eyes closed, water running over his face in a warm cascade of escape, and it's not much of a stretch to pretend that's all he's doing. Dean actually does close his eyes during the entire shower, finding the darkness less oppressive if it is self- imposed.

The water runs cold before Dean finally pushes himself to turn off the faucets and get out. Then it's back to being helpless again, back to fumbling his way around in the dark like some pathetic failure. He nearly slips climbing out of the tub and just about pulls the shower curtain down with him, regaining his footing just in time to avert major disaster.

Toweling himself off, Dean realizes that he no longer knows which shirts or pair of pants is which. They were organized in his drawer at the rehab center, but now they're just thrown in a slipshod mess within his duffel. The only bright side to it all is that he doesn't own much more than blue jeans and t-shirts, so nearly everything should match everything else.

He takes a chance, reaching into the bag in search of a t-shirt, boxers, and jeans. Initially the process is frustrating. His hand submerges into a cacophony of textures and weights, the bulk of which immediately confuses his senses and brings his mind into a tailspin. Forcing himself to draw back, pull his hand from the confusion, Dean leans against the door and fights with his lungs to steady his breathing.

Minutes pass before Dean is ready to try again, but this time he is prepared. He's considered the differences in texture, applied past knowledge to the present situation. He realizes, mentally smacking himself in the process, that he doesn't have to know that the shirts are in the top drawer, socks and underwear in the next, and pants below that. All he has to know is the feel of each item of clothing.

Jeans are rough, coarse, and heavy, not to mention the obvious difference in shape from any other item of clothing he has. T-shirts are old and warn, soft. Over shirts have noticeable buttons down one side and a folded collar. When he truly thinks about it, Dean realizes that everything has a different feel to it, and if he really pays attention he can fully dress himself without any help from Sam.

Now calmer, Dean separates out a fresh change of clothing from his bag and dresses himself before collecting his duffle and exiting the bathroom. He's ready to face Sam again. Or so he thinks...


	5. Chapter 5

**_Hey guys, Hope everyone is having a wonderful holiday! For those of you on spring break party hard for me! I apologize for not getting this in sooner, but I had a big test to study for last week and then a combo Easter weekend and Dad's birthday. All in all, I'm exhausted and just couldn't find time to to respond to any of your wonderful reviews, much less get this next chapter posted. Hopefully some of you are still out there and not cursing me too much. Enjoy the chapter, and of course let me know what you think. I promise I will get back to you on these! Love ya'll lots - Neonchica_**

Dean knows Sam is only trying to help; at least his logical mind knows that Sam is only trying to help. But his ego, the part of Dean that is falling to pieces over the loss of his independence and, subsequently, his manhood, is about ready to declare an all out war on his over-zealous, hovering baby brother.

They have spent close to a week pent up in the small motel room, mainly because Dean refuses to go out in public, and Sam refuses to leave him alone no matter how many times Dean pushes him to. The few times Dean has managed to get Sam to go out it's been to cross the street to the local diner to pick up a meal he's already called ahead and ordered. He's gone for five minutes, maybe ten tops, and then rushes back into the room as though there is a pack of hell hounds on his trail. It doesn't matter that every time he's returned to the room Dean is still sitting in the same place Sam left him, still alive, still fully intact. Sam still won't leave him alone for any greater amount of time.

The rest of the time Sam hangs on Dean's every move, offering unsolicited words of advice and obnoxiously 'helpful' suggestions that only prove to anger Dean more.

It started immediately, that first day out of the shower, when Dean emerged from the bathroom only to have that sickeningly placating tone - the tone that Sam adopts when he's trying to offer suggestions without sounding like he's trying to offer suggestions - come from the right to tell him that his t-shirt is on inside out. Dean had stopped, grit his teeth, and tried to casually pull the shirt off and flip it around without offering a word of thanks to his little brother.

That was the first of a very long progression of items that Dean is now stewing about as he goes about his morning routine, now a week later. He's not even out of bed yet, still trying to orient himself by sound and smell, and Sam's unsolicited advice is already freely flowing.

"Morning, Dean. You're up early today. It's only 6:17," Sam says from across the room. Dean can hear the clicking of the keyboard stop as Sam takes the time to greet him, and he wonders just how long Sam has been at it this morning. He doesn't talk about what he's researching day in and day out, and clams up when Dean has asks him about it, which automatically makes Dean realize that the research is about him. The only thing he doesn't know is whether it's about cures or rehab and acceptance - he figures it's a bit of both.

Dean grunts a reply that sounds like 'fuck off,' but Sam clearly takes to mean _thank you for telling me the _exact_ time before I asked for it, and could you please dote on me like the cripple I am_, because just after he responds Dean hears the scraping of a chair on the worn carpet and Sam begins prattling away again.

"I've got the curtains drawn to keep the sunlight out, but your glasses are on your bedside table if you want 'em. 'Bout three o'clock to where you are now. I found them in the trash again, Dean. You've got to be more careful when you're in the bathroom. You keep putting them too close to the edge of the sink and then they're getting knocked in."

_No I don't, Sam, I keep putting them directly into the trash. You keep taking them out._

"I made coffee, too," Sam says, and before he even finishes his sentence Dean feels a smooth mug being forced into his hand. _Atta boy, Sammy. Now we're talking. _He nods his head in a gesture of thanks, then brings the mug up to his mouth, lifting it to nearly a ninety degree angle to his lips before he tastes the bitter liquid because Sam only fills his mugs half full now, too afraid he might spill, and immediately spits out what he does taste.

"It's ice cold!" Dean snarls. His hand shakes as he holds in the desire to throw the mug across the room, but with his luck he'd probably hit something important and break it. Instead, his hands scrabble for the edge of the bedside table, sliding the mug onto it when he makes contact.

"You nearly burned yourself on the coffee yesterday, Dean. I let this one sit out to cool."

"I want hot coffee, Sam. I don't care if I burn myself."

"But I do," Sam protests haughtily. "You screamed like a baby when it landed on your jeans, and it was jut sheer luck that it didn't leave behind any welts. I'm not risking it again."

"Saaaam," Dean growls out in warning, but somehow even he has to admit that it doesn't hold quite the same amount of venom when he's not sure he's even looking at his brother.

"No, Dean. When you're steadier with your hands maybe, but not now. I won't be responsible." And clearly Sam is no more concerned by the tone of Dean's demands than Dean thinks he is.

Quickly changing the topic, Sam adds, "Are you hungry? We could go across the street to get some breakfast."

Dean hears the hope in his brother's request, knows Sam wants to get him out in the world, wants him to really _practice_ at this whole being blind thing, but he's just not ready for it yet. He's not sure he ever will be - promise or not. "I'm not really hungry just yet. Maybe you could go out later and pick us up something."

A pause, then, "Yeah, all right. Later." The disappointment in Sam's voice is unmistakable, but fades quickly as he continues to launch his attack of helpfulness. "So, uh, what do you want right now? I could turn the TV on, or um, I could read the newspaper to you. Ya know, I was thinking about checking out the local library to see if they have books on learning to read braille. We could learn together."

Dean holds up a hand to stop Sam before he gets too far ahead of himself and snaps, "The only things I ever read were books on supernatural creatures and how to hunt them. Something tells me no one has gotten around to translating those ancient - almost non-existent, I might add - texts into braille. So tell me, _Sam_, exactly what good will it do for me to learn braille?"

* * *

"Dean, I–" Sam stops short, his words catching in his throat. He's got so many arguments running through his mind right now, so many reasons why Dean should fight to get his life back. But intuition tells him that they will just fall on deaf ears, and he fears that wasting his breath on them now might render them ineffectual later.

Taking the time to study his brother, Sam's heart nearly breaks in two. Dean looks so small, so scared, so much unlike his big hero of a brother. He's pushed himself off of the bed and now stands in the walkway between the two beds, knees bent to lower his stance, arms held out in front of him, fingers splayed to feel out impending danger as he inches along. His blank stare is fixed on a spot on the wall, several inches to Sam's left, clearly not seeing anything.

It's unnerving, seeing the dull, grey, scarred pupils that used to hold so much spark and life. Sam remembers a time when Dean's eyes belied everything he strove to hide from the world. Before, Dean would lock down his emotions, hiding anything that might define him as human, as anything other than rock solid and unaffected. But Sam could always see beyond that. He could always look into Dean's eyes and know everything he was feeling - when he was hurting, when life was just getting to be too much for him.

But now - now it's the exact opposite. Now Dean is making no effort to hide his anger and frustration, even his fear. Yet his eyes reveal nothing.

"You what, Sam?" Dean finally breaks the suffocating silence that hovers around both brothers. He turns the upper half of his body, trying to locate the general direction of his little brother solely based on the sound of Sam's breathing. Finally settling on a location, a good foot and a half from the intended target, Dean rages on. "What, Sam? What words of wisdom could you possibly have that could make this better?" He gestures angrily at his face, his eyes.

"I'm trying here, Dean. This whole situation is as scary to me as it is to you, but I'm trying. Which is a whole lot more than I can say for you." Sam knows that his methods aren't working, are clearly making matters worse instead of better, but he doesn't know a better way to do this.

"_I'm _not trying?" Dean steams, incredulous. "How can you possibly say that with a straight face? I try, Sam. I shower by myself, I dress myself, I even feed myself. I'm doing okay, Sam. And if you would trust me just a little bit and leave me alone for longer than the time it takes to sprint across the street and back, I might even be doing better!"

Sam winces, suddenly feeling guilty for just how much he's been doing for Dean that his brother doesn't even realize - or won't admit to. Dean might manage to shower by himself, but he doesn't see Sam following in behind him, picking up the wet towels from the floor, sopping up the additional water that could cause him to slip, replacing the shampoo and conditioner back on the shelf Dean expects it to be on because, more times than not, it's balanced precariously on the edge about ready to fall.

And that's just the shower. Their method of doing laundry is to wash the clothes the same way they came off the body, and then stuff them back into the duffles barely dry. Which means that most of Dean's clean clothes start out inside out, but Sam has since spent the time to turn them all outside in. In the time that Dean is in the shower Sam sneaks the bag from the bathroom, selects a full outfit, and makes sure it is sitting, neatly folded, at the top. Why Dean hasn't realized, he's not sure, but it keeps his brother neatly dressed without the big to do that stemmed from his first emergence from the shower.

Around the motel room Sam is constantly chasing after Dean, picking up anything he might trip over, making sure nothing is in his way. When he sees Dean reach for something he moves it toward him so that it's within easy reach. Anything with liquid in it is firmly held until Sam is certain Dean has a good grip on it.

The worst of all is the toilet. Sam knows the therapists told Dean to start sitting down - especially until he's figured out a way to improve his aim. But Sam knows Dean is still standing up, because he is the one who has to clean up after his brother. And he doesn't have the heart to tell him that. It's a vicious cycle - the longer Sam holds off on telling Dean he's missing the bowl, the more confident in his abilities Dean becomes. But Sam can't bring himself to burst his brother's bubble.

All in all Dean is a far cry from independent. But Sam is stuck between a rock and a hard place, and it's a terrible place to be. He can't tell Dean about the things he's missing because it will inevitably make him backslide; he won't see his accomplishments as anything worth celebrating. The only way he can make this go right is to push for more, and overlook the little things.

"But there's so much more you could be doing," Sam protests, finding it impossible to hold his tongue no matter how much he doesn't want to be doing this right now. "I've suggested at least half a dozen times that you map out the room, yet you continue to bump into things. You won't go outside, haven't picked up your cane since we left rehab, and won't let me get you anything but finger foods from the diner. You were doing so well at rehab, Dean. What changed?"

"You!" Dean screams, taking another step forward and stumbling as he loses his bearings. He recovers quickly, but halts in his forward progression. "You've been following me around for days, spouting suggestions from your stupid little pamphlets. And don't think I don't know what you've been doing all day on the computer. Looking for coping mechanisms? cures? Probably pouring out your heart in the chat rooms to people going through the exact same things? In the hospital, and then at rehab, you held back. You let me do things on my time, in my way. And you had hope for me. But now...now it's like you've lost all hope for everything. You've already stopped telling me things are going to get better, Sam. You've stopped offering words of hope. And now you hover over me like I'm made of glass, like I'll break at the smallest thing. When did you stop believing in me?"

That does it for Sam. Suddenly all the built up tension and frustration he's been feeling at pushing Dean to try harder suddenly drains, only to be replaced by even greater portions of heartache and devastation at the words his brother speaks. Everything in his chest balls up in knots as Sam watches Dean sink back onto the bed, too spent to continue in his current position. _Is that what he thinks I've done? He thinks I've given up on him? God...no. "_Dean, I didn't - I mean, I haven't. I just–"

He has to think hard about what he's about to say, realizing this may be his only chance to set things right. "Dean..."

Sam sees Dean flinch, and feels a set of tears break loose in his own eyes at the sight. "You have to understand where I'm coming from here. I'm lost, man. This isn't something I have any experience with, so the only resources I have are what I'm digging up on the internet and what your therapists told me before you left. And quite frankly, you really haven't been forthcoming with the suggestions either."

Dean's shoulders slump, head bows, and Sam amps up the effort as he realizes Dean is only hearing the negatives. He's desperate to bring his brother back from whatever depression he's fallen into. "I want to help you, Dean. I want to know what it is that you need to make this better, to make you want to get better."

"I'm not _going_ to get better," Dean interrupts, voice coarse and matter-of-fact. "That's the problem, Sam. You seem to have accepted that. You're ready to move on, ready to deal. You've got all the answers for how to do that, what to do, why some things work and others don't. I don't _want_ you to have the answers, Sam."

A quick snort shoots out of Sam's nose before he's able to rein it in. "You think this is me having the answers?" he asks incredulously.

"You're in your element, little brother. You thrive off of this sort of research."

"That's just it, Dean. It's _research_. They call it research because it's all about learning stuff you don't know. I'm floundering here, bro. I'm so far out of my element I'm practically in another universe. And if you honestly think this is me being all knowing then you don't know me as well as I thought you did."

"Oh no? So all those suggestions you've been spouting out to me have been from out in left field? You learning a new trick, there, Sammy? How to pull answers out of your ass?"

This time Sam actually laughs, a sardonic sounding grunt that holds no real humor at all. "Oh, that's rich Dean, coming from you. Did it ever occur to you that maybe I'm offering those _suggestions_ because I don't want to see you in any more pain than you are right now? You ever think that maybe it's not because I want to _annoy_ you, as you clearly think is the case, but rather that I'm trying to help you?"

By now Sam is pacing the floor, withholding an almost insuppressible urge to get in his brother's face and just start screaming like a banshee. "My god, Dean! I see you, damn it. I see the bruises all over your body, mounting on a daily basis as you slam into chairs and walls and doors. I watch you groping around on the counter tops, trying to find a toothbrush - a _toothbrush, Dean_ - and it kills me to know that this is what your life has been reduced to. I know what you used to be, what you were once capable of. I'm dying inside watching you struggle, and I'm trying to do everything in my power to help you."

"I don't want your damn help, Sam!" In an instant Dean is back on his feet, lurching towards the general direction of his brother's booming voice with more bravery and recklessness than he's shown since before he was hurt. "You're not helping, Sam, you're just making things worse! I can manage on my own, god damn you. Just stay the hell out of my way."

Miraculously, Dean manages to find his brother in the dark void that's become his world. His hand connects with Sam's shoulder and he shoves hard, knocking Sam off balance, and himself as well.

"You really feel that way?" Sam screams, quickly regaining his stance and stepping out of Dean's way. "You're totally fine on your own?"

"Damn straight. I don't need you and your fucking help! I did just fine on my own when you went off to Stanford and Dad deserted me in the middle of god damn Louisiana. I handled it then and I can handle it now."

"Fine, Dean! You think you can do this on your own, then fine - You're on your own!" Storming to the door, Sam makes a final glance back to his brother before grabbing the edge of the door and slamming it shut behind him.

There is no time lapse between Sam slamming the door and the immeasurable guilt that floods through him, and it takes incredible strength not to turn right back around and rush back into the room spouting apologies. His hand quivers as it hovers over the door handle, his breath hitches in his chest, but he finally manages to move past his initial reaction. _This will be good for us_, he tells himself. _Dean will be fine. He needs to experience this._

Unable to remove his final connection with his brother, Sam keeps his hand firmly planted against the brick wall of the run-down motel, sliding it along until he comes to the window. He had pulled the blinds to help with Dean's sensitivity to light, but somewhere along the line they had cracked open just enough to be able to see into the room. From the angle Sam is standing at he can see Dean standing in the middle of the room, body facing the door to the room, an expression of incredulity and desperation mixed on his face. Pushing aside feelings of guilt for his voyeurism, Sam places the palms of both hands on the glass window and finds the best position to see through the small crack in the curtain. He doesn't notice the bitter chill in the air, ignores the cold on his palms, as he settles in to watch Dean's attempt at independence.


	6. Chapter 6

**OK, guys, here we go again. And I have to say, there is always at least one chapter that just won't fall into place and for me this is it. I don't like it, but there's just nothing more I can do about it. HOpefully this is just my own critical eye and the majority of you will enjoy it. Regardless, I think I've gotten my mojo back in the upcoming chapters so if you can make it through this we should be ok. THanks for reading. Hope to hear from you soon!**

After Sam slams the door Dean just stands there, breathing hard and trying not to panic. He can hear the roar of his heart pumping blood faster than it should, the desperation of air filling his lungs to overcapacity, oxygen rushing to his head, and all around him the blaring thunder of dead silence. A part of him tries to convince himself that Sam never really left, that he simply slammed the door for show and is actually still standing inside the room having the laugh of his life as he watches his poor, pathetic, blind brother freak out.

"Sam?" Dean asks hesitantly. His voice catches on the single word, and he hates himself for being so weak, so needy. Clearing his throat, Dean tries again, more forcefully this time as he tries to sound nonchalant. "Sam, you there bro?"

But the only response is silence, and the ragged, inconsistent quality to his breathing. He's alone. Sam has left him alone. It is another minute or more before Dean comes to accept that. He issues a sardonic chuckle at the irony of the fact that his brother has given him exactly what he asked for, except now he doesn't know what to do with it, and he's not altogether certain he actually _wants_ to be alone.

Finally Dean reaches out a hand, waving it in front of himself to gain his bearings. At first there is nothing there and he finds he has to take a few shuffling steps forward before he comes into contact with something solid. He runs both hands along the smooth, polished surface, quickly deducing it to be the dresser/desk unit. He knows the TV should be at the right hand side and reaches one hand in that direction until it makes contact with the large unit.

Just being able to feel something tangible, to recognize it for what it is calms to him and Dean begins to notice his breathing return to a normal state. Silently he tells himself that this is something he can do, that he can take care of himself. He doesn't need Sam.

On Dean's left side is the desk chair, the one Sam was sitting in when he woke up earlier. It seems so long ago, but in reality was mere minutes. Fifteen, maybe twenty. Time has no real meaning to him anymore. His hand grips onto the back of the chair and pulls it away from the desk, sliding himself onto the seat in the same fluid motion. He needs to think this through.

But's he's not quite ready for rational thought, he realizes, when out of nowhere his hand lashes out and swipes at the stacks of papers and books Sam has littering the top of the desktop. It is sheer luck that he manages to avoid doing irreparable damage to Sam's precious computer as it, too, takes a dive off of the desk and bounces off his foot before coming to a rest on the floor.

Dean jumps to his feet, letting out a carnal yell that encompasses both the pain of the computer landing on his foot and the desperation of his situation. He wants nothing more than to be able to concentrate on learning the layout of the room, finally put his clothes away in the dresser unit so he can find them better, get the week old hair growth off of his face. But the only thing he can concentrate on is the fact that Sam's not here, that his lifeline has left him. And somehow, with Sam gone he's incapable of doing anything for himself.

Mind reverting back to the rehab center, Dean thinks about all the stupid counseling sessions he was forced to attend, remembers all the inane words of wisdom and encouragement the therapists had spoken, and realizes they weren't so dumb after all. Now he tries to remember what he was taught in that all too short week he was there before running away like a frightened puppy, tail tucked between his legs.

Sam is right, he hasn't been trying much. They've been in this hotel room nearly a week and he still doesn't know where he's going, still bumps into things that haven't changed positions since they moved in. In the rehab facility he'd known every inch of the place by day two. He's living in a motel room barely the size of _one_ room at the rehab center, yet can't even find the bathroom without slamming into at least two walls and a bed before he gets there. There is something truly pathetic about that, he finally realizes, and that's all it takes to decide he has to do better.

Except 'doing better' is easier said than done, and he's suddenly suffocating under the realization that he's now alone and faced with the prospect of making the changes on his own. He's too stubborn to realize that the abandonment is the work of his own doing, isn't ready yet to pick up the phone and beg for Sam to return. He's not yet done wallowing in a world of self pity.

Unwilling to seek out his little brother, despite his panic, Dean forces his mind to focus on something else. Anything else. It seems like so long ago since he woke up, yet he realizes he's still walking around in just a pair of sweats. He decides the first order of business is to shower and get dressed. _That_ he can do, he's been doing it everyday since they've been holed up in this motel room. It's his own little escape from the outside world. His escape from being blind.

But first Dean has to find his bearings again.

Letting his mind wander as a blind man, Dean realizes, is not the smartest move he could have made, because coming back to the present simply means that he has no idea where in the room he is. His orientation is all screwed up and he has to slowly, cautiously inch around with his hands out until he makes contact with something - a wall this time - and then has to move along the wall until his knee hits the edge of a bed. That takes several minutes in itself, and then it's still a matter of figuring out whose bed and where to find the duffles from there.

The process is an agonizingly slow one as he scoots, inch by inch, around the bed until he comes to a corner. He reaches a hand out, hoping to find a wall, and instead finds empty air. Bending down and reaching out further finally allows him to come into contact with the second bed and Dean lets out a sigh of relief. At least now he knows where he is.

Outside the temperature is barely in the double digits and Sam has neither a coat nor the keys to the car. Snow crunches under his feet, the inch of dusting covering a sheet of ice that formed sometime during the night. Somewhere along the line Sam has gone from being too freaked out about his brother's reaction to being alone to now shivering uncontrollably. It's all he can do to force himself to remain outside, to not jump at the opportunity to go to Dean's rescue - and get himself in out of the cold.

But Dean has made it abundantly clear that he doesn't want Sam around, and a part of Sam realizes that the only way to get Dean to accept help is to let him come to realize he needs help on his own. Dean can be stubborn, but Sam can give it right back.

He almost breaks when he watches Dean go at the items on the desktop and sends his laptop crashing to the ground, and Sam has no idea whether he's more concerned for his brother or his laptop. But at the last minute Sam holds back and forces himself to remain in the freezing cold - for Dean.

A few minutes later it seems that his restraint will pay off as it becomes noticeably clear that Dean has calmed down and resigned himself to making some changes. Time passes almost imperceptibly, the cold barely touching him once again, as Sam watches his orient himself to the room and then make his way into the bathroom.

Several minutes pass without Dean reentering the room and Sam isn't sure what to make of his brother's absence. Logic, and the fact that he watched his brother collect some fresh clothes, tells him Dean is probably in the shower. And that is enough for Sam to feel comfortable about reentering the room. He's freezing without his jacket, so if Dean's stubborn streak is going to last much longer Sam knows he's got to get himself warm.

Taking out the electronic key card from his pocket Sam slips it into the lock and slowly, cautiously, opens the door a crack. He stands there, holding his breath, for several seconds until he hears the tell-tale sound of water running, reassuring himself that Dean is, in fact, taking a shower. The jacket is draped across the end of Sam's bed where he'd left it, and he skitters across the room grabbing the jacket and the car keys from the desk and pulling the curtains open a bit more before making a beeline back out the door.

Now warmer, Sam finds it much easier to wait patiently for Dean to finish his shower and return to his line of sight. It takes another fifteen minutes before Dean emerges from the bathroom, fully dressed and feeling his way along the wall to the beds. Sam cringes when he takes in the job Dean has done dressing himself, the buttons on his overshirt that are off making one side hang down lower than the other. It's more about paying attention to detail, and Dean is capable of feeling the difference if he would put his mind to it, but the fact that Dean can't see himself in the mirror is clearly an issue.

Sam finds himself caught off guard when he watches Dean crouch down beside the bed and finally come up victorious with his boots. _What the hell does he need those for? _Sam wonders, as Dean sits on the edge of one of the beds and begins to pull them on. Dean hasn't put anything on his feet since the day they checked into this room.

He's talking to himself - Sam can see his lips moving - as he finishes dressing and reaches for the sunglasses Sam had indicated earlier in the day. Sliding them onto his face Dean stands back up and uses the beds as a point of reference while he makes his way to the door.

Sam jumps back when Dean pulls open the door to their room, breath catching in his throat as he tries to shake his guilty conscious. He can't help but feel he's just been caught with his hand in the cookie jar and he waits in anticipation for Dean to call him out.

But his brother says nothing, instead surprising Sam when he holds the door open with his foot while carefully unfolding the white cane that has gone untouched for days. He stands in the door for several minutes, cane vertical and held tight in his hand, and once Sam calms down he realizes that Dean is mumbling to himself.

It's nearly impossible to hear what Dean is saying from Sam's position several feet away, but from the determination written across Dean's face it's pretty clear that it's some kind of pep talk. Sam inches forward a little, trying to get closer to his brother without giving away his position, but he doesn't dare get too close. Even blind Dean is far too great a hunter not to notice his little brother mere feet away.

Dean's knuckles are pasty white from the grip he has on the cane. His lips are set in a determined scowl, and it's going on five minutes before he ventures to make any movement forward. But finally Dean moves his foot from the door, taps the cane out in front of him, and inches a step closer to the sidewalk. It takes him five steps to clear the two feet of carpet between his starting point and the outdoors, and another two steps before he completely lets go of the door and lets it swing shut behind him.

And about two more seconds for Dean to realize he doesn't have a key to get back in. "Fuck!" Dean spits out as he spins to face the door in a valiant attempt at stopping it from

closing. But he's too late. The door is shut solid and no amount of pounding or jiggling of the handle is going to change that. Now he's stuck with his decision to leave the room, and suddenly it doesn't seem like the best decision he could have made.

Standing there facing the door Dean finally gives up his attempt to get back in and instead rekindles his endeavor for independence. He's determined to prove Sam wrong in spite of the ever-growing pit in his stomach telling him this is a bad idea.

"Come on, you loser," Dean urges, his backwards attempt at a pep talking wreaking havoc with his emotions. "You can do this. It's just a sidewalk, just a motel. You've seen plenty of these in your lifetime. Just pretend it's dark outside. Quit being a baby."

Slowly, Dean pushes himself away from the door and turns to once again face what he assumes to be the parking lot. Now his focus is on finding the office and getting another key, suddenly deciding that making it all the way to the diner (of which he has no idea of its location) is out of the question for this little excursion. The office will be a good start.

Chances are pretty good that the office is at the end of the sidewalk in one direction or the other. Left or right, a fifty-fifty chance that he picks right. "And if you can't find it on the first try go the other way and look again, moron."

Taking a chance, Dean decides to go left and sets his cane to sweeping out the obstacles in front of him as he slowly makes his way down the sidewalk. Dean can feel the slippery ice underneath his feet, causing him to go even slower than he might have if the walkway was dry. "Damn management can't even be bothered to salt the walk," he bitches, feeling more and more apprehensive about his decision the farther he walks.

Too late, Dean has to admit that Sam is right about needing to count his steps, figuring out how far has to go to get one direction or the other. He's already too far away from the door to know how to get back, and in hindsight, doesn't even know what room they're in to begin with. He thinks Sam might have told him when they arrive, but he'd quickly forgotten in his foul mood.

"Great. So now I'm out here in the middle of nowhere with no idea how to get to the office, no idea what room is mine, and no way to get back into the room even if I did know. You are such a freakin' loser Winchester. How did you ever make it as far as you did hunting?"

Behind him Dean hears a rustling and he breaks from his self-deprecation to stop and listen for more. "Who's there?" he demands, voice much louder than when he was berating himself just seconds before.

Not a sound. "Come on, this isn't funny," Dean snaps. If someone's there you have to tell me. Who are you?"

Once again no answer is returned and Dean finds himself trying to shake off the strange feeling that he's being watched. Slowly, he turns back around and continues along his path towards (he hopes) the office.

He makes it another several steps in silence before everything goes to hell. Somewhere over his right shoulder, a ways back, a cell phone begins to ring and Dean freezes. He knows that ring. _That little SOB! He's been watching me all this time. _

It's Sam's ring. And this time Dean knows it's not just his imagination.

"Son of a bitch," Dean snaps, spinning in the direction of the ringing phone, fingers clenched in anger around the handle of his cane.

Dean hears a gasp, knows it's his brother cursing getting caught, and vows - sight or no sight - to beat the living daylights out of his little brother for what he's been doing. Except things don't exactly go as planned as he feels his foot slip out from under him on the slick ice. In an instant Dean goes from standing upright, angrily storming in some direction remotely near his spying brother, to flying through the air.

He lands hard, knocking the air out of him, and hear's Sam cry out his name before his consciousness wanes.


	7. Chapter 7

_**Alright guys, here we go again. I hate to do the constant apology thing, but I have to apologize for not responding to any of your wonderful and oh-so-encouraging reviews. I just spent the entire last week planning and then carrying out an alumni weekend with 5 events back to back. It was crazy, I'm exhausted, and I barely had time to check email let alone respond to any of them. Things will be slowing down for me now in the next few weeks, so I promise all of you will get lovely little responses to your (hopefully) abumdant reviews this week. I promise!! Regardless, here we go on this chapter. Things are about to turn around and move forward. Hope you like...**_

_If it opens its mouth, turn away,_ Sam had told him. More than once, in fact. It had become a mantra of sorts. The only thing they really had to know of the Klower demon; its only real defense.

They had spent another two years together after opening the hell gates, working tirelessly to send every last evil that had been released from the hellmouth back to where it belonged before fate intervened. The Klower was a lesser demon really, which made it all the more ironic that Dean had been felled so drastically, so permanently, by it. That he had made it through the opening of Hell's gates, that he had survived through the killing of the yellow eyed demon, that Sam had managed to save him from the deal he'd made with the crossroads demon, and yet the Klower dropped him.

Dean had laughed when they finally came face to face with the Klower, all of Sam's carefully spoken words of warning flying from his mind in one fell swoop. The thing was barely two feet tall, appearing in its natural form - the Klowers generally lacked the strength to inhabit human beings - and the only reason the brothers were even bothering with this particular case was because this demon was tormenting an orphanage.

It didn't have the strength to kill, had yet to truly maim anyone, but the havoc it was wreaking within the walls of the small catholic children's home was enough to bring the Winchester's running. By all accounts the kids were terrified to go to sleep, fear of the monster hiding in their closets and under their beds keeping every last one of them up all through the night. The few toys in the orphanage had been destroyed, clothing torn to shreds, and a handful of children had come away with scratches and bruises. But because they were children, of no real threat to the demon, none had been unlucky enough to come into contact with the acidic venom that could shoot from the demon's forked tongue.

When Dean and Sam had arrived the orphanage was in a complete disarray, children either throwing temper tantrums in their exhaustion or walking around like little zombies, trying not to fall asleep. Piles of shattered toys and ripped clothing overfilled the trashcans. And the nuns who ran the home were absolutely beside themselves.

Sam had done the research on their way to the job, so they were ready to get down to business that first night. As luck would have it, being a devout catholic orphanage, the sisters were open to the idea of demons and destruction, and allowed Sam and Dean to do their work with barely a flinch. And late that night, almost closer to morning, their studious vigil for the Klower demon came to a close as the little beast emerged from his hiding place in a closet and began his routine.

Around two am the children had finally decided to trust Sam and Dean enough to attempt to sleep, and the entire room was now filled with soft snores. Each of the brother's had taken point on opposite ends of the room, so when the demon emerged, dragging a clubbed foot behind him with a low scraping sound it was Dean who heard it first. His head snapped up, eyes focusing more in the dim morning light, and took in the sight of the grotesque demon.

As Sam had predicted, it was barely two feet tall, it's large round head taking up a good third of his height. He wore no clothing, save for a small cloth tied around his waist, and his skin was greyed and wrinkly, sagging as though it had been stretched out of proportion. Skin sat between the gaps in his fingers and toes, creating a webbed look. His hair was a wild mass of curls and tangles, sticking up in all directions and hanging over his beady black eyes. Pointed ears peeked through the tangle of hair, twitching as they listened to the sounds of snores from the children.

The Klower didn't speak, instead simply limping over to the first child, the first bed. He was inches away from Dean, yet didn't even look in his direction, as though the hunter was totally insignificant in all of this, a mere fixture in the room. But as the demon reached for the sheet the child slept under Dean made the decision that the torment would end right there and then.

Jumping from his chair Dean lunged at the demon, ready to grab at him and get him away from the child, but the demon anticipated Dean's attack and stepped out of the way just in time. Dean went down hard, landing with a jarring thud on the cold tiled floor, and the Klower took off.

In an instant, Sam was on his feet and chasing after the small beast, surprised at the speed and agility it seemed to maintain in spite of its size and the obvious infirmity to its foot. The demon managed to run out the door to the large bedroom before Sam could even cross to that part of the room, but still the hunter persisted in his chase. Soon, Dean caught up in the chase, just in time to watch the demon scramble out a window and into the vast fields that stretched away from the orphanage in every direction.

Dawn was on the horizon, sunlight just bright enough to cast eery shadows across the wheat fields when Sam and Dean burst through the main doors after the Klower. The little demon was already out of sight, his shortened height an obvious advantage in the towering fields, but the frantic rustle of husks and grasses allowed the brothers to still locate the direction their prey was headed. They took off at full sprint, finally gaining on the beast, but not without noticeable struggle.

Minutes passed in their chase until finally the fields ended and a large, dilapidated barn came into view. Pushing for one more burst of speed, Dean surged past Sam and finally closed the distance between himself and the Klower.

"If it opens its mouth, turn away!" Sam screamed at him, panting heavily, as Dean's hand finally came down on the demon's arm. He squeezed tight, making sure he had a firm hold.

"It's the end of the line, buddy," Dean spat out, jerking the little beast off its feet.

The Klower spun its head around and glared at Dean for mere seconds before letting out a low hiss. It's mouth widened, eyes growing larger at the same time, and Dean found himself mesmerized by the spinning dilation in the black orbs. In the distance he could hear his brother calling to him, screaming. "Turn away, Dean. Don't look at it."

But by then it was too late. He felt the acid as it splashed on his face, searing into his eyes, burning the skin around them. He let go of the demon in a flash, hands pulling up to his face as he tried to claw at the tumultuous agony that claimed his face. Feeling himself fall to his knees, Dean was just barely aware of the sound of gunshots, of agonized screaming, and then Sam's hands on his wrists pulling them away from his face.

_If it opens his mouth, turn away. _Simple words, simple commands. It should have been easy to follow. It was a simple hunt. And yet...

* * *

"Dean. Dean, wake up. Come on, bro."

Dean comes alert in stages, still reeling from the all too vivid dream, the reminder of how he'd lost his sight. He can hear Sam calling to him, can feel his brother's hands tapping his cheek, and finally he reaches a hand up and grabs at Sam's wrist. Pulling the offending hand away from his face Dean slowly opens his eyes, and then realizes it is still a lesson in futility. _Damn. Still blind. Don't know exactly what I was expecting. _

The panic in Sam's voice seems to ease off as Dean stirs, but he doesn't back off entirely. "Dean, you alright? How's your head feel?"

For a minute Dean just lays there, taking comfort in Sam's arms as he reorients himself to the sounds and scents around him. But then he remembers that he's mad at Sam, remembers that his brother has been out here spying on him for God only knows how long, and probably laughing his ass off at Dean's misfortunes.

Doing a complete about face Dean pulls away from Sam's hold and starts to climb to his feet on his own. "Dude, I'm good. Get off me," he snarls as he scrambles away from his brother, hands and arms pinwheeling in search of something concrete that isn't Sam. His hands finally make contact with one of the poles holding the awning up over the sidewalk and he uses that to pull himself to his feet before spinning in the general direction he thinks Sam is in.

"What the hell did you think you were doing? Were you spying on me?"

Sam hedges around the answer, clearing his throat nervously, but doesn't manage to eek out an answer before Dean's demands continue.

"How long have you been standing out here? What did you hear? Answer me, damnit!"

"Dean, I–"

"No, Sam, don't start lying to me. I want the truth."

Sighing, Sam bends down and picks up Dean's cane, nudging his hand with it before suggesting, "It's cold out here, Dean. Why don't we go inside and talk about this."

Dean jerks the cane out of Sam's hand and grips it tight as he tries to compose himself, make it look like he isn't nearly as scared or dependent as he actually is. "Fine, lets go."

He's limping now, added to everything else, and the combination makes for a sloppy retreat back to the room. It doesn't help that, despite the fact he's furious with Sam, he still has to rely on him to find the damn door. But as soon as they hit the threshold Dean shakes off his brother's help and makes his way toward the bed on his own.

"Alright, we're inside. Talk, Sam."

"I don't know what you want me to say, Dean. You kicked me out of the room, I had nowhere to go, so I just stood outside and waited until you'd cooled down. End of story."

"Not end of story, Sam. It's practically in the negative digits out there and you just decided to hang out for the past hour? I don't think so. I'm blind, Sam, not stupid. Try again."

Sam's tone picks up a whine to it as he insists, "I wasn't spying on you. I was just...I don't know..."

"Watching me through the window in hopes that I wouldn't find out?" Dean asks snidely.

"Well...yeah," Sam finally admits, deflating. His body makes a loud whoosh as he sinks to his own bed in defeat. "I wasn't trying to hurt you. I just wanted to make sure you were okay. I had nowhere else to go, so I just watched."

As an afterthought, Sam quickly adds, "If it means anything, I was impressed by how well you got around once you finally got your act together. Maybe it was a good thing for you to be left on your own for so long."

Dean snorts. "Thanks for the pep-talk, Sam. I guess I can rest easy now that you're so impressed with me."

"Quit being such and ass, Dean. I'm just trying to help you. Could you give me that much?"

"Why? Why should I give you anything when you can't seem to return the favor? I'm the one who's blind here, Sam. Me! Not you. So quit making this all about your needs and your problems."

"Then tell me what to do! Tell me what the hell you need and I'll get it for you. You promised me before we left rehab that you would try, that you would let me help you, that you would continue to focus on your rehab. And yet, you've just laid around the room like some overgown lump, feeling sorry for yourself. So forgive me if my actions aren't exactly what you want, but I'm just trying to help you get back on your feet the only way I know how!"

Already sitting on the bed, Dean has no other recourse other than to drop his head into his hands and sigh. Silence reigns for a time, Sam waiting with baited breath for an opening from Dean, Dean agonizing over whether or not he can even let his brother in.

"You wanna help, Sam?" Dean finally asks.

"Of course I do. You know I do."

"Then back off." Dean says it low and threatening, but Sam takes no credence to the tone.

"I can't do that, Dean. Offer me something else."

"Why the hell not, Sam? Why is it so goddamn hard for you to just back off and let me do this on my own? Just give me some space!"

"Because I have a big brother who taught me differently," Sam replies softly after a time of thoughtful silence.

Dean sighs, considering the revelation, and then, "This is different, Sam."

"Like hell it is!" Sam spits out, jumping from his bed and beginning to pace the room as he picks up the objects Dean's earlier rampage had left on the floor. "How is this different, Dean? How is this different from any other time you've been hurt or sick? How is my behavior any different than yours would be if it was me in your position?"

The thought of Sam going through the same thing Dean is currently dealing with is too much to bear and he visibly flinches. His hands unconsciously wrap tighter around the cane he's holding, wringing around the slender body. "I can handle this, Sam." Dean says, by way of avoiding the answer.

Sam finally stops what he's doing and quietly lets a pencil drop to the desk as he turns to look at his brother. He softens, somehow seeing the pain he's inflicted on his brother just by the sheer suggestion that this could have just as easily gone the other way. It could have been Sam taking the acid shot from the Klower's mouth. It could be Sam sitting on the bed with a cane clenched tight in his hands as he struggles with the darkness that surrounds his every moment.

He crosses the room and crouches in front of Dean, placing his hand on his brother's knee and doesn't let up when Dean flinches at the contact. "I have no doubt that you can do this on your own, Dean. But you shouldn't have to. We're a team, you and me, and we're going to face this as a team. Together."

Dean shakes his head and then looks in the direction of a spot just over Sam's left ear. "I can't ask you to do that, Sam. I'm out for the count, now. No more hunting in my cards. I can't protect you."

"What does our working together to beat this thing have anything to do with you not being able to protect me?" Sam demands, incredulous at the one track mind his brother seems to have. "I didn't ask if we could go find the next haunted mansion and burn us some ghostly remains. I'm just asking that you let me help you find your way, figure out the best way to deal with this. And maybe, just maybe, we can find a way to reverse it."

"You heard the doctors, Sam. There's no cure. My corneas were burned. That's it, end of story."

"Maybe that's it based in the medical world, but we have a whole other world out there that they don't even know about."

"I'm not taking any more deals, Sam. You and I both know that nothing good ever comes of that. It's a wonder I'm still alive at all, so if this is what I gotta live with then I guess it's better than nothing."

"Your sense of martyrdom is amazing," Sam replies, scoffing slightly at the almost rote statements that Dean is spewing. "It's just too bad you don't sound as though you mean any of it."

"Sam..."

"No, Dean, listen to me. We just need to take things one step at a time, starting with getting back on track with your rehab. I'll keep researching ways to fix this, but I promise to run anything past you before I pursue it. How's that for a deal?"

Dean shrugs, huffs, runs his hand through his hair and looks away from Sam despite the fact that he isn't seeing anything no matter where his eyes are turned. It's the symbolism more than anything else that has him turning away from his brother, turning away from the challenge. He has to think about it, really think about it. They've already made a deal, from when he left the rehab hospital, and that hasn't done either one of them any good. Sam dropped out on his end of the deal, and while Dean isn't about to admit it to his little brother, he knows he's failed on his own promise. So what good will agreeing to another deal do either one of them?

But then again, Sam seems so desperate to help, to be a part of this. And if he doesn't agree to the deal Sam's offered Dean fears it will end up just being more of the same. More of Sam pushing and imposing where he isn't wanted, throwing in his two sense when Dean hasn't asked for it. So maybe...maybe if Dean accepts the deal and puts forth a real effort to hold up his end of the bargain then Sam will back off just a bit and listen to Dean's own requests. It's worth a try, he final relents to himself, returning his blank gaze to the general direction of his brother.

"You promise you'll keep me posted on everything you're doing, all your research?"

"Of course," Sam answers, more excited than Dean would have expected. He can practically visualize his little brother panting with anticipation, eyes sparkling and eager. "You'll know every step of the process."

"And if I put forth more effort to learn my way around, you'll back off and listen to me when I say I need space?"

"If your effort includes actually leaving this hotel room then yeah, I'll heed your requests."

"Alright then, Sam, it's a deal."

Sam lets out a huge breath of relief and finally climbs to his feet, ready to get on with their lives now that Dean seems to be ready to join him. "That's great, Dean. Thank you."

Going back cleaning up the rest of the room silence takes over once again, although the air seems to be lighter, less stuffy. Which makes it so much harder for Sam to say what he's got to say next. It has to be said, has to be done, but he knows without a doubt that Dean is going to be pissed with a capital P.

He debates over saying anything, wondering if maybe he could work out a way to get Dean to where they need to be without actually telling him where they're going. He is blind, after all, wouldn't be able to read the street signs or the directions.

But Dean has always had a bit of a sixth sense about him, and somehow Sam knows he'd figure it out whether he says something or not. And there is no doubt that in the grand scheme of things it will be better to come out now rather than later.

"So, um, Dean," Sam hedges, purposely making sure to stay well out of his brother's arm reach on this one. "Um, in the interest of full disclosure, I figure I ought to tell you something.

"Yeah?" Dean asks, tension in his voice in recognition of the fact he won't like what he's about to hear.

"It's not that big a deal. Really gonna help us out a lot, ya know?"

"What did you do, Sam?"

"I, uh..." Suddenly the tension has grown so thick it could be cut with a plastic knife and Sam is questioning his sanity in doing what he's done. But he can't turn back now, and he finally makes the decision just to forge ahead. "I called Bobby."


	8. Chapter 8

**_I_'m sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry! I had no intention of taking this long to post the next chapter. It seems like all I've done is make excuses and I hate doing that. But I've been sick all week, and not really lucid enough to do much more than stare dumbly at the television screen before passing out into oblivion. And in case none of you have figured it out yet, I'm at the stage where I have run out of pre-written material and am now trying to pound something out on a weekly basis. I don't know why I do this to myself! Haha. ANyway, here is the next chapter. Hopefully it makes up for the extra week it took to post. And I promise to try and get another chapter out by next week. **

**As always, thank you so much for your patience and kind reviews. It really makes writing these things worthwhile, and makes me want to go faster and be better. Hope you all enjoy! nc**

Getting Dean into the car to go to Bobby's proves to be easier than Sam had originally anticipated, yet he fears that his brother's compliance will be short lived. Right now Dean is silent, but the explosion is fast approaching. It's only a matter of time.

They've been on the road for an hour now without a word passing between the two, and before that half a day in the motel. It's the silence that tips Sam off to the fact Dean's furious, because normally Dean is all about screaming and berating Sam for stupid mistakes and misguided errors, but when he goes beyond mad to furious he stops talking altogether and commences stewing in his own juices.

At the rate Sam is driving they will make Bobby's in time to have a late dinner and he wants to have this argument over with by the time they pull up. It's not Bobby's fault Dean doesn't want to share his most recent misfortune with the older hunter, and the last thing Sam wants to do is make the man feel as though his offer to help is unappreciated.

"So are you ever going to talk to me?" Sam finally asks.

He glances over at Dean and feels another pang of remorse at the way his brother flinches when Sam's voice comes from out of nowhere. Dean's leaning against the window of the car, eyes open but staring at nothing out the windshield. His hands hesitantly grace the lines of the car, running over the smooth leather, fingering the plastic buttons and metal trim.

He blinks, but says nothing, barely acknowledging that Sam has even asked a question, too lost in his own thoughts.

* * *

It has been weeks since Dean has seen the dark interior of his beloved Impala, the vast stretch of highway spreading out before him, his brother's tentative smile. It's been weeks since the last sunset, the last greasy diner menu, the last dusty excuse for a motel room. Images of things Dean had previously taken for granted are now fading from his memory faster than he can keep up with.

He can barely remember now whether Sam has one dimpled cheek or two. Can't recall if the buttons on the Impala's radio glow white or yellow. Is his newest toiletry bag blue with red trim or is it red with blue trim? It didn't really matter before - before all that stuff was just there, right in his line of sight day in and day out. Storing those things didn't seem necessary because he could see them whenever he wanted.

But that was all before. Before Aberdeen, Kentucky. Before the Klower demon. Before he made a stupid mistake. The most fateful move of his lifetime. Of Sam's.

And now Sam wants him to just soldier up and move on with his life, pretend like he's not clinging to the barest shred of sanity, of security, of hope. Sam thinks that Bobby will help, and maybe he will - help Sam. But for Dean, going to Bobby's feels like giving up, admitting defeat. As long as the rest of the hunting realm thinks that Dean Winchester is whole, capable, still in the fight, then there is still hope for Dean. But the minute even one person finds out he's blind it suddenly becomes real. And now Bobby knows.

"How could you, Sam?" Dean finally asks, voice so low Sam has to strain to hear what he's just said.

"Dean?" Sam is all ears, ready for this regardless of how it's going to go down. Anything is better than silence.

"I asked two things of you. Give me space and give me privacy. You couldn't do either one."

"It wasn't what's best for you."

"You sure about that, Sam? Or is it that it wasn't what was best for you?"

Sam's silence is enough to give Dean his answer, and he chooses not to press for a confirmation. "We already had out the issue of space, so I'm not getting back into that one. But then we don't go five minutes content in our new understanding before you go and drop this bombshell on me about Bobby. I asked you not to call him and you promised you wouldn't."

The hurt in Dean's voice is unmistakable and Sam can't help the churning in his gut as he realizes just how betrayed his brother is feeling right now. That was never his intention, but then again it wasn't as though his call to Bobby hadn't taken days to work up to. It wasn't like he hadn't known Dean would be pissed beyond words to find out he'd called the man in the first place. So, in some ways, Sam realizes he is getting exactly what he'd asked for.

"Bobby can help you, Dean," Sam all but whines. "He can help both of us. Going to his place means better research, more connections, stability that you won't get moving across the country from motel to motel. It's a good idea."

"I hate to break it to you, Sam, but Bobby ain't exactly a neat freak. You've seen all those books he's got lying around, and the junkyard...I might as well put on the body amour now. It'll save me from a few thousand bruises."

Sam sighs, a loud, lengthy, sound of frustration. "Could you just give this a chance? You like Bobby, you know his place probably better than anywhere else we could go, and it's not like he's gonna go blab this all over the country. The rest of the world will be none the wiser."

Dean has to give credit to his little brother; he hadn't realized the kid was quite as perceptive as he clearly is, having just touched on the highlight of his reason for not wanting to go to Bobby's. But still, just cause Sam can still channel his psychic boy talents doesn't mean Dean's about to let him off the hook.

"And what happens when one of his buddies stops in for a chat, or...or needs some help with research on a hunt? What happens when someone calls him to check in and one of us accidentally answers?"

"That's not going to happen, Dean. How often do people just drop in at Bobby's? How often do we answer his phone for him? Come on, Dean, use your brain for once. I know you've got one."

_Damnit, point 2 for Sammy._ _I must be off my game._ "I just don't like it, Sam. What more do you want me to say?"

"I want you to say you'll give it a chance," Sam cries in exasperation. "I want you to tell me that I'm right, that it was a good idea for me to get Bobby in on this one. I want you to stop arguing with me!"

Turning his body around to face in Sam's direction, Dean throws his hands up in the air. "And how the hell am I supposed to do that when you blatantly ignored my request for you to not do exactly what we're arguing about now? How is that fair?"

Sam sighs, frustration obvious as the sound of a palm slapping against something (steering wheel, Dean figures) sounds against Dean's blackened backdrop. "I'm sorry if my trying to help you comes as inconvenient, but I'm not going to stop just because you've got your panties in a twist."

"So...in other words, I don't have a say in this regardless of what I want. Is that basically what you're telling me?" The anger in Dean's voice is unmistakable, tension thick in the air, but he still seems to have deflated just a tad and Sam uses that to his advantage.

"If you're asking me to not go to Bobby's, then no, you don't get a say in this. But if you're asking me to go to Bobby's on your terms...well, give it a shot. Tell me how you want to arrive there."

"How is that fair, Sam?" Dean demands huffily.

"Look, I'm giving you a choice. It may not be exactly what you want, but it's a choice none the less. I'm trying to give you the opportunity to do this your way. I want you to want to do this, Dean. I want you to want to get better."

Another silence graces the tension in the Impala, although this one isn't nearly as strained as the others have been. Even Dean can't argue with the pitifully desperate tone his brother has taken on, and if he could see he knows he'd be looking into those weeping Sammy puppy-dog eyes his brother is so good at making. _Damn it if even blindness can't protect Dean from his little brother's most effective weapon._

"My way, huh?" Dean finally asks, conceding to the deal. He knows when he's beat.

"Your way." Sam agrees.

Dean nods and the deal is set as tension flies out the window.

* * *

When the sound of tires leaving pavement and pulling onto dirt and gravel reaches Dean's ears he knows they're close. And Sam's right, Dean does know the layout of Bobby's well enough even to know where they are within the twists and turns that lead back to the older hunter's out of the way house and junkyard. A feeling of dread and anxiety wash over him as it finally hits that 'this is it, no turning back now,' and Dean grips the door handle tighter, fingers immediately achy and tight from the pressure.

Finally the car stops. "Just hold on a second, I'll come get you," Sam's voice calls out from the void, making Dean have to stop and consider his options. He doesn't want help, doesn't want Bobby to see Sam leading him from the car into the house, but is that really _worse_ than the image of Dean stumbling and tripping his way without the assistance? He wants to be sure of himself, cocky and confident. But clearly that's not going to happen today.

Grudgingly, Dean finally elects to listen to his brother for once today and wait, but he does open the door and collect himself before Sam gets there - just to prove that he's not entirely up to listening. That this is still his show - just as they'd agreed. He's got the cane unfolded and gripped in his hand when Sam falls in at his side, and Dean is actually surprised at the gentleness and discreetness with which Sam helps him from the car. Dean's free hand finds the halfway point between Sam's shoulder and elbow and he latches on, waiting for his brother to go all grab-handy, surprised when Sam does nothing more than take a step forward and wait for Dean to do the same.

They get only a handful of steps away from the car when Dean hears the sound of a door slamming from somewhere up ahead, and the sound of panting and lumbering footsteps as Bobby's dog Rumsfeld comes bounding down the front steps toward the brothers. Instantly Dean tenses up and he feels Sam do the same, neither one certain if the reaction comes from having the dog run at them or from Bobby getting his first glimpse of Dean in his weakest hour.

"Whoa, whoa guys, hold up there," Sam says to the dog in a slightly panicky voice, mimicking the voice in Dean's head. It's not that Dean's ever been afraid of dogs, but having a hundred pound rottweiler come at you from out of nowhere with all the enthusiasm of a 10 pound puppy is enough to give anyone a heart attack. Sam jerks away from Dean's grip, leaving the older Winchester floundering in empty space, and then Dean feels the whoosh of air as the dog impacts with his brother, narrowly missing Dean himself.

"Rumsfeld, Dante, get off," Bobby's gruff voice breaks in. He's close, closer than Dean had realized, and wait - _there's two of them?_ Last he checked, Bobby only had one dog.

The confusion lasts only a second or two longer as the two dogs respond to Bobby's order and back away from the brother's. Sam returns to Dean's side, nudging his bicep back into Dean's grasp as Bobby's attention returns to the boys.

"Sorry 'bout that. New pup just loves new people, and Rumsfeld seems to be picking up his bad habits - go figure. You alright?"

When Sam doesn't answer immediately Dean realizes the question is actually aimed at him, and he nods, trying to appear as unruffled as he possibly can. "Yeah, no problem. Just wasn't expecting another dog. How long you had him?"

"About six months. He's close to a year now. Don't worry 'bout him. He'll calm down just as soon as you're settled. Come on now, lets get you two inside."

Dean feels Sam start forward and he stumbles after, tapping out a pattern on the ground with his cane as he seeks out the obstacles he figures he's bound to run into in the seemingly disorganized junkyard that Bobby keeps. In reality, Dean's always known that Bobby's junkyard is actually organized chaos, that the older hunter has strategically placed every single bit of junk, every hulking shell of a car, to provide the best possible protection in the event of attack. Regardless, without being able to see, the junkyard has just become one giant stumbling block.

But Sam is good, and Dean makes it from the car to the steps without tripping over anything. Sam issues a low warning about the steps just before they hit them, and then individual counts of the five stairs to the porch. The going is slow, and Dean has to feel out the edges with his toe to know how high to lift his foot, but in the end that obstacle is conquered without a hitch either.

They walk through the door, the dogs rushing past them into the house, and then follow Bobby inside. Dean feels Sam guide him to the right, into what he thinks he remembers is the living room, and his thoughts are confirmed when Sam pulls him down to the couch and helps him get settled against the cushions.

The whole way in Bobby has been talking, yammering really, about the dogs and the junkyard and a couple of hunter friends who ran into an interesting hunt the past week. But the one thing Dean realizes Bobby hasn't mentioned is his sight, or anything at all to do with his appearance. Bobby's created so many circumlocutions around the pink elephant in the room they're going to need a map to find their way back. And Dean's not sure what to make of it, or how to deal with it.

Sitting there, trying to wrap his mind around the way Bobby's reacting, Dean feels a cold nose on his hand and he jerks back in surprise before he registers it's a dog.

"Dante," Bobby grumbles to the pup as Dean lowers his hand back down, seeking out the rottweiler's thick head and offering a heavy pat.

"It's alright, Bobby. Just surprised me. No worries."

"Yeah, well he shouldn't be surprising you like that."

"It's really okay, Bobby. I'm not going to break just because I didn't see him coming."

A heavy silence fills the room when Bobby isn't sure how to react to Dean's blase mention of 'seeing' anything. It's clear the older hunter is suddenly out of his element, has no knowledge of how to deal with a formerly gung ho, take no prisoners hunter who suddenly can't see his own hand in front of his face. Within a matter of minutes Bobby has turned any word related to seeing or visualizing, blind, eyes, whatever, into taboo subjects.

Problem is, aside from his own slip ups, Dean really has no desire to mention them either. And he really doesn't feel like playing therapist or mommy to an overgrown junkyard owner who isn't sure how to deal with new situations.

So that really doesn't leave many other options on who's going to solve the 'hear no evil, speak no evil' problem.

Several more seconds pass in what seems like hours before Sam breaks the discord the only way he can think of. "It's been a long drive, Bobby. Maybe we can go settle into our room? Freshen up a bit?"

There is an audible sigh of relief, Bobby's for sure, and maybe some of Dean's mixed in for good measure, and the next thing Dean knows he's got Sam nudging him in the side with his elbow. Once again, Dean grips onto his brother's arm and they rise from the couch in one fluid motion.

The cane isn't as good inside smaller buildings where walls are so closely spaced together and furniture and other obstacles make it difficult to complete a grand sweeping motion, so Dean keeps the cane tucked up under one arm and relies on Sam's sense of navigation to get him out of the living room and up the stairs to the bedroom they always stay in. Along the way he listens as Sam gently explains to Bobby about some of the obstacles in the way, how certain things will need to be moved if there is any chance of Dean finding his own way through the house, and that once Dean learns the house nothing can be changed. Bobby doesn't say much, and Dean figures there's a lot of head nodding and grimacing going on in place of verbalization, and he wants to see those expressions. He wants to know how Bobby feels about having his life and his house turned upside down for him.

"I'm sorry, Bobby. I know how much of an inconvenience this must be for you," Dean finally interjects as the three hunters clear the landing at the top of the stairs and make their way down the hallway. "I didn't want to come, didn't want to impose on you. I'm sor–"

"Nonsense," Bobby interjects, before Dean can do any more damage to his already bruised ego. There's a hint of nervousness in the tone, but through it all he's still the same Bobby that helped raised the boys, and the words calm Dean down. "You're not imposing at all. I wanted you to come. Now, it'll take me a little bit to learn what needs to be done differently, but that don't mean I'm not willing to try. You just gotta speak up if there's something you need that I'm not doing, yeah?"

Dean nods in agreement, still feeling like a squeaky third wheel, but this is the closest Bobby's come to even acknowledging there's something different about Dean. And even at that, he's not really treating him all that different. It helps, in an oddly comforting manner.

"And maybe," Bobby continues, slapping Dean on the back, "maybe once you're settled a bit you could give me a hand out there on some of those old cars. Thought maybe you could take a listen to the engine on this old GTO that I just towed in here the other day. Something don't sound right about it, but I just can't place my finger on it."

Trying to remain nonchalant, Dean shrugs and turns in the direction he thinks Bobby is standing. A part of him knows Bobby's just trying to be nice, get him involved. The mechanic is better than anyone Dean's ever known with a car, himself included, and there's nothing Dean knows about cars that Bobby Singer didn't teach him. But this sounds like something he can still do, a job he might still be able to help out with. And that's more important than admitting it sounds like a charity case. So Dean shoves those ideas to the side and accepts an offer for what it is. "Yeah, I think I could do that."


	9. Chapter 9

**_I know, I know, I know - I'm a terrible person who doesn't deserve any of your kind words from past chapters. I'm going to apologize and then tell you that I'm quickly running out of time to write. I usually get to do most of my writing on the weekends, but I've been out of town just about every weekend lately with no end in sight. So here is the only promise I can make to all of you - I will do my darndest to write during the week and get this thing out as quickly as possible. I can't promise an update every week, but I will promise the story will get finished! Please forgive me - especially those of you who have told me they don't read WIP's but are reading mine regardless. I'm sorry for not being more prompt on this. Hopefully I can at least do some justice to the storyline to make it up to you all. _**

**_NOt a lot happens in this chapter - just some filler (which might be another reason it took me so long to get it up - I prefer writing action and angst to fillers), but there is definitely more coming soon. _**

**_THanks again so much for your patience and friendship. Enjoy..._**

It never seems to get any easier for Dean to wake into the darkness that consumes his world now. There is always that half second of hope as he transitions from being awake to opening his eyes, always that hope that this time he'll open them and be able to see again, more than just the faintest outline of shadows distinguishing light from dark. And there's always that disappointment as he realizes that the blindness is still there, still real, still debilitating.

This morning is no different, except that this morning the darkness is coupled with confusion and disorientation, a lack of knowledge of his new surroundings and an awareness that it isn't even simple deduction like in the hotel. In his lifetime the only home he's known better than Bobby's is Pastor Jim's, so Dean thinks it should be easy to remember his way around. But it's not knowledge of the corners and the hallways that poses a problem, it's the not knowing if there is a stack of books in his way, or a crate full of weapons, maybe a dismantled engine laid out on a tarp - who knows. With Bobby you could never quite tell what to expect - a bachelor through and through and wears his badge with pride.

"Sam?" Dean finally calls out into the darkness, grudgingly deciding he'd rather have his brother's help to find the bathroom than to go tumbling on his ass down a set of stairs.

But silence is his only answer, and a louder call yields the same response. Sam isn't there. _And fuck if this isn't like the hotel all over again! _His brother's just bound and determined to abandon him every chance he can get.

"Alright, if that's the way it's gonna be," Dean grumbles, resigned to once again making his way on his own. He starts slow, spinning around on his butt until his feet touch the cold wood floor beside the bed, and standing up. Slowly working his way forward, Dean's hand lingers on the bed until the length runs out and it suddenly becomes necessary to find a new prop for orientation. And then it's a few seconds before he finds the solid door, the smooth doorknob, and a final deep breath has Dean plunging out into the hulking unknown of the rest of Bobby's house.

Almost immediately Dean finds his first stumbling block, something small and light that is easily kicked out of the way but only after Dean loses his balance and has to grab onto the wall to stay upright. "Shit," he mutters under his breath, trying to control his racing heart and appear composed should anyone come across him stumbling through the hall.

It takes him a bit to prepare to push off again, already questioning the intelligence in going it alone. The smell of bacon frying in the kitchen comes wafting up the stairway accompanied by low voices, and Dean realizes Sam isn't as far off as he'd originally assumed. Maybe if he stands here long enough his brother will come to his rescue. _But no,_ Dean chastises himself, _you're not an invalid. You can do this on your own._

He knows the bathroom can't be that far away, just another few feet down the hall and to his left, and it's a whimpy thing to be needing his baby brother to help him get there. Mind made up Dean presses onward, hand to the wall trailing behind him as his feet sweep little semi-circles in search of more obstructions. Dean finds no more on his way, and happily collapses on top of the closed toilet seat lid as soon as he enters the bathroom. Another score for Dean Winchester.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Sam's been up since daybreak, Bobby even earlier than that, and the two of them spend the morning talking over mugs of hot coffee about Dean and what he's been through, and what the future holds. Bobby throws out a few suggestions right off the bat about possible solutions for Dean's blindness, but Sam shoots down every one as something they have already tried, or something Dean will never go for. Modern medicine won't help, and much of the supernatural possibilities come with too much of a price. And soon, short of burying themselves in research, they're both pretty much dried up when it comes to figuring out an answer.

Research will take time, time they don't have just this morning, and conversation tips from future cures to present day coping.

"I hate to ask this of you, Bobby," Sam hedges as they finally work their way into the kitchen hours later, wading through piles of research disguising itself as junk, "but if Dean's gonna stand any chance of finding his way around here without help we're gonna have to clean a lot of this stuff up. It's a tripping hazard."

Bobby reacts much the way Sam had anticipated, chewing on his lower lip in contemplation as he ponders the dangers his house and lifestyle pose to Dean. He adjusts the brim of his ever present baseball cap and nods agreeably. "Whatever you gotta do, Sam. This is his house, too. You boys can stay here as long as you need, so you might as well get comfortable."

Sam's nervous smile turns into a genuine one. "I appreciate that. And Dean will too."

"Tell you what, Sam. How's about I take Dean out to check on those cars this morning and you can fix up the house however you want. Later you can walk 'im through and do whatever you gotta do to get him independent. That work?"

Sam nods, and hands Bobby the bacon he's ready to fry up. "Thanks for the car stuff, too," he adds in a low whisper. Dean's not up yet, but he doesn't want to risk verbalizing anything that might hurt his brother's already weakened pride. "I know you don't need his help on that engine, but I really think it perked him up when you offered. Gonna make a real difference to him in the long run."

"Don't know what you're talking about," Bobby deadpans, immediately turning away from Sam to keep his facial expressions hidden. "That car out there's keeping me stumped beyond belief. I need that ear 'o your brother's to figure this thing out."

Sam smiles, pats his friend on the shoulder, and pretends he doesn't see what a big softie the older man is. "I'm just glad he can help. Thanks."

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Bobby's got breakfast under control, so Sam decides to go up and check on Dean, see if he's woken up yet. Climbing the stairs, he can see Dante snoozing right on the landing, back stretched out and aligned against the lip of the top step. Sam doesn't know much about dogs, but he's surprised the pup isn't down in the kitchen with his nose in the air sniffing out the bacon. He'd watched Rumsfeld skitter in there just seconds earlier, eagerly begging for his share of the good stuff.

Sam is halfway up the flight when Dante suddenly wakes, quickly turning so that his belly is on the ground, head perked up and looking somewhere down the hallway.

"What do you see, boy? What's going on?"

The dog doesn't respond, and Sam takes another step before he finally realizes what the Rottweiler is staring at. His brother is up, hand trailing along the hallway as he picks his way over to the stairs. Dean is close to the stairwell, leaning just a bit into the wall, and as he suddenly runs out of wall his steps falter, setting him off balance. And suddenly Dante is on his feet, muscular body pressing against Dean's legs.

Dean recovers quickly, laughing nervously as he reaches down to pat the dog on the head, pretending it was the dog - and not the absence of support - that had Dean almost falling. "Scared me there for a minute, boy. I didn't know you were there."

Choosing that moment to break in, Sam clears his throat and commences climbing the stairs. "Dean?"

His brother startles again, eyes darting to a spot over Sam's shoulder as he tries, in vain as usual, to pin point the direction of the voice. Sam is getting used to it by now, but the action still causes a lump to form in his throat.

"Huh, guess I didn't know you were there, either," Dean says, trying not to appear as freaked over the fact his other senses didn't compensate for him as he actually is. He gives Dante a final pat and then raises his hand to find the wall again.

"Sorry," Sam offers, genuinely remorseful.

Dean makes a sour face, practically glaring at his brother, and Sam quickly rushes on. "So Bobby's just about got breakfast on. You hungry?"

"Starving," Dean says honestly. "Ummm, where–?"

He doesn't have to finish the question for Sam to realize what he's asking, and Sam quickly closes the remaining distance between the two of them and offers Dean his arm. Together, they make the tedious trek down the flight of stairs and into the kitchen, Dante following closely behind.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

"Mornin' Dean, how'd you sleep?" Bobby says as Sam guides his brother into the kitchen and directs him into a chair at the kitchen table. The older hunter eyes Dean nervously, still clearly unsure how to act around him now. Watching Bobby, Sam can almost hear the questions and uncertainties - what to say to Dean, how to say it, what's off limits - streaming through his mind.

Dean shrugs. "Just fine, I guess. No worse than normal."

"Temperature okay? Not too hot or cold?"

"Nope. It was fine, too."

An uncomfortable silence follows, and then Bobby tries again, looking at the large dog who has settled himself at Dean's feet. "Looks like you've found yourself an admirer."

"Huh?" Dean jerks his head around the room in search of what Bobby is referring to, forgetting for a moment that he can't see anything anyway.

"The dog, Dean. He's already following you everywhere you go. Seems to have taken to you."

"Oh," Dean says, no inflection to his tone. "Nearly tripped me, earlier."

"You alright?" Bobby turns toward Dante, hand up and poised ready to call the dog away from Dean.

"Dean nods. "Yeah, I'm fine. It's no problem, really."

"You're sure? Cause I can put him out in the yard if that'd be easier for you."

"No, really, it's fine." Dean insists, reaching down to pat Dante on the head again.

And then the silence returns, as though all topics have been exhausted already. Bobby returns to the bacon he's cooking, unsure what else to speak about. He pulls the bacon from the pan slowly, drawing out the time before he has to sit down at the breakfast table.

At the table, Dean slowly rubs Dante's head, his eyes averted downward so he doesn't have to pretend to be looking at anything, and it's clear that he has no intention of speaking unless he has to.

Which means Sam has to step up and break the tension in the air. "Dean, Bobby's going to have you help with that car this morning if you're okay with that."

Another shrug is his response. "Yeah, I guess I could give you a hand. Don't know how much help I'll be, though."

"You got the best ear I've ever known," Bobby speaks up, finally finding something he can say. He sits down at the table with a plate of bacon and another of eggs, the toast already stacked and waiting, and along with Sam begins to dole out the breakfast.

Dean scoffs. "Next to you, of course."

"I hope not. Cause I can't figure out what the hell the problem is. I'm hoping you'll have a different idea."

With Dean's plate full, Sam sets it in front of his brother and guides Deans hand around the plate, pointing out the location of the bacon, eggs, toast, and finally his juice cup and coffee mug. They eat in silence for a few minutes, Bobby and Sam both watching as Deans hands fumble with the food on the plate.

And then finally...

"You guys are watching me eat, aren't you?" Dean finally accuses, putting his toast back on the edge of the plate and glaring into the center of the table, hoping he's at least come close to finding the location of one of the two other men at the table.

"No, of course not," Sam says too quickly.

"Don't lie to me, Sam. I haven't heard either one of you take a bite since you dished out breakfast."

Sam freezes, breath hitched because he doesn't know how to respond to that. Admitting his guilt will only serve to tell Dean there's a reason they should be staring, but there's no way Dean will continue to accept his lies either.

"Sam," Dean presses again when it seems unclear whether or not his brother has any plans of answering.

Humor seems the best way to handle this and Sam finally replies, somewhat tense in the answer, but still forcing a laugh into the mix. "You've got to admit, Dean, I think this is the first time ever that you've dug into a meal without looking like a starving wolf at a buffet. We're just shocked that you haven't devoured the entire thing yet."

It's not that Dean truly believes Sam's excuse, but it's better than the alternative. Better than thinking his brother and Bobby see him as some freak of nature, using his hands to help shovel eggs onto his fork. So he accepts Sam's answer and forces a laugh of his own.

"It's not like it's five star cuisine," Dean quips back. "Kinda hard to gulp down a meal of cardboard and styrofoam."

"You watch your mouth, boy, or I just might actually slip some cardboard on your plate one of these days," Bobby snipes back good-naturedly. "Not like you could actually see the difference till it's in your mouth and you've chewed several bites.

And that's all it takes to lighten the mood in the room, reassuring all three men that things might actually manage to get back to normal sometime soon.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

After finishing breakfast, Sam leads Dean back upstairs to get dressed and then back down again, leaving him in the living room to wait for Bobby as Sam heads back up for a shower. Dante is never far behind, he's clearly picked Dean as his new "person" and seems to be determined never to let Dean out of his sight.

"Bobby'll be down here in just a minute," Sam says once Dean is settled in an easy chair beside the entrance to the living room. "You good to wait for him or do you want me to stay here?"

Dean growls, clearly annoyed at Sam's suggestion that he can't wait alone. "I'm a big boy, Sam. I can take care of myself for five minutes. You just go get your girly shower with your flowery bubble bath. I've got Dante here to take care of me." He pats the Rottie's head and shoots a smug smile in Sam's direction

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Several minutes later Dean hears Bobby stomping down the stairs as though he weighs about 5 tons, and the young hunter has to smile at the noise. It never ceases to amaze him how Bobby can be so stealthy and light on his feet during a hunt, yet lose ever last ounce of that when safe in his own home. It's like the man lives in two different worlds.

Outside the living room the floorboards creak as Bobby closes the remaining distance between himself and Dean, and Dean turns his head in the direction of his friend. "You ready?"

"Sure am," Bobby says, and suddenly the footsteps are back. Dean braces himself, ready to accept the help, but suddenly realizes that the sound of Bobby's footsteps is receding. "Tell you what, Dean. I've got to grab a few things and I'll meet you out in the garage. Be there in just a sec."

He's not sure whether to laugh or be pissed as he hears the front door creak open and then slam closed before Dean can even open his mouth to protest. In a split second Dean is alone in the living room. Bobby's just walked out on him.


	10. Chapter 10

**_Bet you thought I forgot about you all, huh? Not so much - just been on vacation off and of for the last few weeks, and (unfortunately for all of you) spending my remaining time working outside on my yard. Lots of construction to be done... It really would be so bad if I weren't passed out on my bed by 10:00 everynight - haha. Pathetic, I know. But anyway, here I am back with another chapter. _**

**_A while ago I had someone ask me if I would have Dean get a seeing eye dog. I thought about it for a while, loving the concept of putting a dog in my story, but struggling with how Dean would come to have a seeing eye dog. They don't just give them out to anyone - it's a long process of interviews and dedication and a whole slew of other things that just didn't seem to fit with Dean's persona. And let's not forget the whole money issue... So anyway, I gave it some thought and came up with the following. It's a bit farfetched, but not entirely out of the realm of possibility. Dogs do have an uncanny ability to realize when someone needs help, and they're incredibly adaptable. Hope you like it! And thanks, again, for sticking by me and my sporadic updates. _**

In a way, it's comforting to know that Bobby is not dwelling on Dean's loss of sight, that the fact of its presence can be so easily forgotten that the older hunter could walk out and assume that Dean will just follow along behind. But to the same degree, Bobby walking out means Dean is stranded, helpless once again. He has no idea how to get to the car, doesn't even know where it is for that matter. Bobby could be out in the garage with the car, or it could just be sitting on the lot somewhere.

Suddenly, Dean is missing Sam's over attention to detail, because even though it can be extremely frustrating and he just wants to go off and smack his brother a lot of the time, it also means that he's never left behind. And Sam is subtle enough that it has quickly become habit just to have his hand wrapped around his little brother's bicep.

Dean stands up anyway, figuring that Bobby will realize his mistake soon enough and come back to collect him. He's feeling his way over to the door when he once again feels that now familiar nudge against his hand from Dante. The pups head is just level with Dean's hand and he reaches down to pet the Rottweiler again, glad for the company.

Dante steps forward, slowly, and Dean pets him along the back as he moves along. "You're a good boy, you know that?"

The pup wiggles a bit and then he's no longer under Dean's hand. But it's not long before he's back again, nudging his head under Dean's hand, and this time he's more forceful, jerking his head up so that Dean's hand is firmly planted on his large skull before starting to walk forward.

"Make up your mind, boy," Dean grouses, once again letting his hand slide down the dog's large body. "Either you want to be petted or you don't, but you gotta stay still. Can't have it both ways."

It takes another two cycles before Dean finally realizes that the dog is trying to lead him, that he wants Dean to keep a hand on his head as he steps forward, that Dean is to move with him.

"Where're you taking me?" Dean asks, nervous and slightly stymied that a dog is taking him anywhere, yet he's oddly curious, too. His other hand, the hand that isn't gripping onto Dante's head, is wildly searching out purchase on his surroundings, desperate for a handhold. He grips onto the doorframe for a second, but then they're moving past that. And then he feels the table near the entry hall, the stack of mail that never seems to get opened, and a coat hanger that seems to hold half of Bobby's wardrobe.

"We goin outside, boy? Are you taking me to Bobby?"

The dog continues forward another few steps before coming to a halt and letting out a soft whine. It takes Dean a minute to figure out why they're stopped, but suddenly it dawns on him and he reaches out his hand, somehow unsurprised to find the front door just a few inches away.

Dean laughs loudly, finding for the first time in forever that he's capable of such a feat. "You crazy dog. You don't actually think I can just go out there, do you? In case you haven't noticed, I can't see shit."

Resigning himself to just wait until Bobby returns for him, Dean starts to turn back on his heel, hand stretched out in front of him to guide himself back to the living room. He shakes his head incredulously as he repeats, "Crazy mutt," under his breath. Yet somehow, he's not surprised to find Dante back at his side, leaning into his leg as though to coax him to turn around and go back to the door.

A moment of heavy hesitation lingers in the air as Dean contemplates his options. Dante seems oddly insistent, and Dean thinks maybe it's not that Dante wants to take Dean outside, but rather that he needs Dean to let him outside. _Yeah, that makes more sense. Dog just has to pee_. Because it really doesn't sit well with him mentally to think that this barely trained rottweiler has deemed himself Dean's own self-appointed seeing-eye dog.

"You gotta go outside, boy? You gotta pee?" Dean asks as he stretches his hand back out in search of the door. Fingers finally ghost the doorknob and Dean grips tightly, turning it and pulling the door open. Dante just stands there, whining more at Dean and nudging his fingertips, and it finally occurs to the young hunter that there's a screen door in the way, too.

"Sorry, boy, you gotta give me a bit of a break here. Blind and all, ya know?" Dean chuckles nervously to himself, trying to get acquainted with the idea of saying the word. It's not as though he has any other choice - some day he's got to own up to the fact and he might as well practice on the dog.

He reaches for the screen door and pushes it open, holding it steady as he waits for the pup to burst through and out into the yard. But Dante still doesn't move, and he continues whimpering and nudging at him in a way that's quickly becoming annoying, and finally Dean sighs and relents.

"You're not going to leave me alone until I go with you, huh boy?" He asks, planting his hand firmly on top of Dante's head and finally inching his way out onto the porch.

He's nervous as all get out, yet Dante is trotting along like a proud papa with his charge firmly planted to his side. It's unreal how easily the dog seems to mold to his needs and his pace, moving only a step ahead of Dean as he guides him across the porch. At the stairs, Dante stops, kind of plants his body just in front of Dean to make sure he stops too, and waits until Dean's got his hand firmly planted on the railing before starting slowly downward, one agonizingly slow step at a time.

"Hey Bobby?" Dean calls once they hit the bottom step. Suddenly he's feeling nervous again as he realizes that he's about to be pulled away from the only lifeline he knows. Once he leaves the security of the house there's no telling where he could end up. The thought terrifies him.

"Bobby!" Dean calls again, louder this time. Dante's nudging at him, urging him forward, but he doesn't want to let go of the railing.

The older hunter doesn't answer and, surprisingly, Sam doesn't either. Dean had figured he would have been out of the shower by now. But no doubt the sound of Dean's panicked shout would have brought his little brother running had he heard him, so clearly not as much time has passed as Dean thinks.

Once more, Dean calls out to Bobby, and Dante's reply is an impatient push to the back of Dean's knees with his massive head. The hunter finally gives in, hoping he isn't making a bad choice when he chooses to rely on the young dog for his only assistance. He doesn't even have his cane, having figured he wouldn't need it while he had Bobby to guide him. _Too bad that plan's been all shot to hell, _he thinks as he gives his trust over entirely to the dog and allows himself to be led into the black void.

Dean is more than shocked when Dante turns out to be not only a good guide dog, but possibly even better than Sam at leading him safely around obstacles. The dog walks a relatively straight line, making sure to always stay in contact with his charge and only stopping or halting when there is something Dean needs to be cautious of. Twice he stops and plants his large body directly in front of Dean, and both times, when Dean has finally been brave enough to shuffle forward, he's found an object large enough for him to need to step over. When Dante nudges into him to the right or the left it's only to discover a car or a piece of junk that he needed to skirt around to avoid running into.

At this point Dean is not at all surprised when, about ten minutes later, Dante safely delivers Dean to Bobby's workshop where the old man is stirring up a racket with come kind of power tool.

Bobby shouts over the din of the machine, not even bothering to shut it off. "Bout time you decided to get your scrawny ass in h...oh, fuck." The machine stops as Bobby finally realizes what he's done, and it's almost comical the way the man suddenly sprints to Dean's side, scouring him over for cuts or bruises or any indication that he might not have had an uneventful trip to the shop.

"Shit, Dean, I'm sorry. I clean forgot. It's just I–"

Dean holds up a hand to stop him from rambling on, suddenly over it as he realizes the victory he's currently celebrating with the dog. He didn't need Bobby's help to find the place, and oddly enough he's grateful for that fact. "Dante got me here safely," Dean says instead, giving the rottie an extra pat of approval.

"He did what?" Bobby asks in disbelief.

"He led me here," Dean says proudly. "It was his idea, actually. I was just going to wait until you realized you'd left me behind."

Bobby's clearly unsure whether to focus more on his apology for abandoning Dean or to focus more on his Dog suddenly becoming a modern day lassie. But as has always been the way with the Winchester clan and their few friends Bobby chooses the path less angsty and says skeptically, "You're telling me this big lump of a dog actually coerced you into letting him lead you here? You know how long it took me just to teach him to sit?"

"I don't have an explanation for it," Dean shrugs, "just know what I saw- er, felt, or whatever. I'm here aren't I?"

There's a pause as Bobby contemplates that one. Can't really argue it, now can he. And then a rush of wind just by Dean's face.

"You nodding again old man?" Dean asks, slightly irritated regardless of this other breakthrough. He doesn't want to admit he's blind, but he also doesn't want people to forget. It's a fine line.

"Huh, damn...guess so, yeah. Still can't get used to this whole thing. Sorry," Bobby admits. He quickly glosses over that fact and nudges his arm up next to Dean for him to take, just like he's seen Sam doing. "Come on, lets go take a looksie at that ol' GTO, shall we?"

Dean nods, once again grateful that Bobby's making an effort to treat him normally, even if most of it stems more from nervousness and pure lack of knowing what else to do. He slides his hand up to Bobby's arm and the two of them make their way across the garage - Dante close on their heels and whining all the way. And when Bobby accidently forgets to tell Dean to step over the muffler he's got lying on the ground Dante is the one who slams his massive body into Dean's knees just before the hunter would have tripped over the thing.

That's when Bobby finally decides to believe, and he squeezes Dean's arm tightly with the hand that Dean's not clinging too - both a reassurance of 'I gotcha,' and an indication of incredulity - as he lets out a soft "Huh. Damn dog must be some kind of idiot savant."

"He's not the idiot," Dean replies, trying to force in a hint of jocularity into his voice. "Dante wasn't the one who just about made me trip over that damn whatever in the middle of the floor, now was he?"

Once again Bobby tenses up, Dean can feel it in the bicep he's got his hand curled around, and the man stammers out an apology. "Shit, Dean, you really coulda been hurt. I'm so sorry - I wasn't thinking. Maybe, ah, maybe we shouldn't do this right now. I mean, I'm looking around my shop and there's so many things you could trip over or get hurt on. Sam'd kill me if anything happened to you on my watch."

"Bobby, please," And it's maybe more pleading than even Dean himself would have liked, but he's got to have some normality in his life. He just can't sit through another day of just sitting there, struggling to find his way to the bathroom or poking around a plate of finger food. He's come this far, made it on his own with the help of only a dog, and he wants to help. He wants to feel whole again.

"Please, just get me near the car. I'm not fragile, I won't break because of a skinned knee - promise. I just...I just want to help."

That's enough for Bobby, it's really all he needs is the vocal permission that it's okay to treat Dean like Dean, that he is just as tough and capable as he's always been.

"Well in that case," Bobby says, "we're here." He grabs onto Dean's wrist and pulls the arm forward another foot or so until Dean's hand is held flat against the side of the 69 GTO.

It's an instant love affair, and for a second Dean manages to forget about his beloved Impala as his hands gloss over the curves and lines of the car. He circles the car slowly, feeling out the handles and the moulding, spending a good several minutes on the hood and the headlights and the grill. Bobby allows him the time to get acquainted intimately with the details, both inside and out, and then pops the hood.

"She clean inside?" Dean asks, already rolling up his sleeves as he dips his hand in to feel out the mechanics. From the outside the car seems relatively dent free, but he'd noticed the roughened paint job from the lack of wax, knew it hadn't seen TLC in a good several years. It wouldn't have surprised Dean to find a rats nest built up somewhere under the hood and the last thing he wants to do is stick his finger in and get bit.

"Bout as clean as a car can get," Bobby replies. Sprayed her out myself coupla days ago. Have at it."

Dean nods, and goes in full tilt, both hands fumbling over the components of the car like he's making love to it. It takes him near on fifteen minutes to get reacquainted with the inner workings of a GTO, trying to work off of memory as his hands gloss over individual parts, and checking with Bobby each time he thinks he's identified something. He's right every time.

"Okay, old man," Dean finally says, removing himself from under the hood and standing up straight. "Let's start 'er up and see what we've got going on."

"The only answer to that is for the driver's door to creak open and the left side of the car to dip as Bobby climbs into the driver's seat. Dean hears him fumbling with the ignition for a minute and finally the old car tries to start. Tries, being the operative word.

"You see what I mean?" Bobby calls out overtop of the dull whine that is the cars engine whirring pitifully. "She'll turn over, but I just can't get her to catch."

"You've checked the starters?" Dean calls back. It's more conversation than anything else, because anyone worth their salt would think to check the starter first, and right now he's just working his way through the options.

"Yes, Mr. Smartie pants," Bobby leers jokingly. "I checked the starter. It's not that. And it's not the battery or the spark plugs either, smartass."

"D'you check the compression? The Timing chain?"

"Newly replaced," comes Bobby's reply.

Dean sighs, runs a hand through his hair, and drops his ear closer to the engine. "Alright, turn her over again. Let me think."

Bobby does as he's asked and Dean listens hard this time, taking in the sounds and the nuances of the problem, head cocked for maximum listening capacity. A minute or two later Dean holds up his hand for Bobby to turn the car off and stands up.

He's looking somewhere off to Bobby's left as he begins to speak, and even though he's wearing his sunglasses the lack of eye contact and the fact that Dean probably doesn't realize he's not looking directly at his friend is disturbing.

But he's just so damn happy and proud of himself when he announces the problem that Bobby quickly overlooks his own discomfort in favor of reveling in Dean's victory. "It's gotta be the distributor cap ya dork," Dean announces. "Engine's not getting enough fuel to catch. Easy fix."

Bobby smacks his head and slams the car door once he's cleared it. "Damn it, you're right boy. I checked the lines, but didn't even think to look at the cap itself."

"You're slipping, old man," And Dean's not sure if he means the fact that Bobby didn't think of the distributor cap or the fact that Bobby's a really bad actor and had probably considered the distributor cap all along. "Spark, compression, fuel - it's gotta be one of those things, ya know?" he says in lieu of calling the man out entirely. "Looks like you're in need of an assistant mechanic to help you out."

"You askin for the job?" Bobby calls. His voice is muffled, and Dean figures he's already under the car pulling the cap and inspecting it.

"Not so much asking as telling," Dean jokes back. It feels good to joke again, good to be free and useful even if he does know Bobby coulda figured this one out on his own. "I mean really, Bobby, you think the customers are gonna come to you if you can't even figure out the simple stuff? You need me."

Chuckling sounds off to Dean's left, and gets louder as he figures Bobby's pulled himself out from under the car. He can hear the sound of hands smacking against cloth, Bobby brushing himself off, and then the mechanics voice is even closer. "It's the distributor cap alright. Guess you got yourself a job boy." And then Bobby's hand cups Dean's neck in a fatherly gesture, proud and happy. "But we're not replacing it just yet. Gotta order the part. Come on, it's almost lunchtime already and I bet that brother of yours is chomping at the bit for our return."

Dean can't believe how much time has passed in that morning; for the first time in forever time hasn't dragged on for him. His stomach growls in response to Bobby's comment about lunch and Dean smiles. "I could eat."

He's hesitant to grip onto Bobby's arm this time - it's yet to actually be offered - but as much as he appreciated Dante getting him out to the garage he knows he still trusts a guide of the human variety better. But that doesn't stop him from placing his free hand on the top of the massive rottie's head when it's offered, and together the three of them make their way safely back across the junkyard to the house.


	11. Chapter 11

**_So, I've had the first part of this chapter written for quite sometime, but I wanted to add a second part and make it the whole turning point in the story before posting. Unfortunately, I've developed what we in the fan fic world know as a "real life." For the longest time this was just an urban legend to me - haha - but when a friend's father went and bought 2 new jetskis and decided to store them at her house we just couldn't resist. I've been out at the lake literally every weekend, working 40 hours a week in between, and just started back to school this past Monday. All in all, unfortunately, it means my time for writing has drastically decreased. _**

**_So, instead of making you guys wait until I added in the second half of this chapter I went ahead and found a good stopping point to post now. The next chapter is about two thirds written and (hopefully!) will go up soon. I will finish this story - I promise, promise, promise. Just keep those notes of reminder coming. Thanks to everyone who is sticking through this!_**

Within a week Dean's got things pretty much down pat at Bobby's. Sam has made sure that everything in the house is put away, almost to a point of compulsivity, and that Dean stands no chance of tripping over or running into anything. He can just about come and go as he pleases within the old house, and anytime he falters he's got Dante there to stick his large frame in between him and the danger.

But he just can't get used to the normalcy of the whole situation. It's too simple, too bland. He's like a caged tiger, just pacing and desperate to get out of his pen. And if things don't change soon it won't be long before he ends up snapping.

"Sam, I need to get out of here for a while. Gotta go do something, man," Dean finally whines one afternoon. They're in the living room; Sam on the couch doing research for something or other – he won't tell Dean what - and Dean standing in the entry hall, fingers tapping nervously on the woodwork as he bounces on the balls of his feet. Dante's lying at his feet, eyebrows raised as he watches the man he's come to think of as 'his person' jump around like an addict looking for his next fix.

"So go outside," Sam says without even looking up. He's staring intently at the screen on the monitor, one finger following the words as he takes everything in. "Take Dante with you."

"I've been outside," Dean near whines, bouncing harder in the doorway. "I'm not talking just needing air. I mean I need to get out, get some exercise. I'm going stir crazy here."

"So go for a walk. The junkyard's huge – should be plenty of space to get some exercise."

"Saaaaam," Dean growls out in frustration. "That's not what I mean and you know it. Jesus, bro, throw me a freakin bone here."

At that, Dante perks his ears up and he whimpers slightly. Dean snorts out a laugh and slowly lowers himself to pat the dog on the head, hand flailing slightly in empty space before he finally makes contact. "Sorry boy, bad analogy. I don't have any bones for you."

"So can we do something or not?" he asks, demeanor immediately shifting back to frustration as he stands back up and looks to the general direction he thinks Sam is in.

Sam winces as he sees Dean looking over his head and several feet to Sam's left. That never seems to get any easier for the young hunter, and it's a constant reminder that Dean is far from whole, still dependent on others for some of the simplest of tasks. He sighs, trying to reign in the frustration he's feeling at not being able to get his work done. Dean's acting like a little kid right now and it's not fun, but Sam reminds himself that this isn't any easier on Dean than it is on him, and hey, the guy probably deserves the right to whine every now and again.

"What do you have in mind?" Sam finally asks, resigning himself to the idea that his work load is finished for the day.

Dean shrugs, suddenly unsure of himself now that he's got Sam on his side. "I'm just getting out of shape," he replies by means of an explanation. "I need to get some real exercise."

A hint of anxiety hampers Sam's attempts at staying in control as he asks, "And again, what exactly did you have in mind. No offense, Dean, but you're not exactly in a position to be training right now."

Dean's shoulders sag and he leans against the door a little heavier for support as he lets out a breath of air. "Yeah, I guess you're right. I'll just…I don't know. Dante and I will be outside."

Seeing Dean deflate so quickly immediately causes Sam's heart to clench, making him regret his words. It's his job to rally his brother, to make him realize that losing his sight doesn't necessarily mean he has to stop living. He stops and thinks for a minute, closing the computer and pushing it to the side. _There's got to be something,_ he thinks as he chews his lip nervously in contemplation.

And then it hits him. "Alright, I've got an idea," Sam says, crossing the room in two quick strides and clamping his hand over Dean's shoulder. "Come on."

"Where're we going?" Dean demands. His pressing need to do the work has quickly been replaced by a reaction of uncertainty and suspicion and it's with a shaky hand that he grips onto Sam's bicep and follows him from the house. Dante isn't far behind, running in circles around Sam and Dean and eyeing Sam up as though he doesn't entirely trust him either.

Sam has to laugh at that one, feeling the irony that a dog has somehow taken his place when it comes to protecting Dean. But at the same time it makes him stop and think and realize that he's not really been there for his brother the way he should have been. Lately it seems as though Dante's been spending more time with Dean than Sam has, while Sam's been spending most of his time buried in his research. Trying to find a way to fix Dean's eyesight. And as much as he feels bad about neglecting his brother, he can't help but feel as though it's for a higher purpose. _Isn't it better to fix the problem than to cover it up?_

"Your babysitter isn't going to let you out of his sight," Sam snorts, trying not to trip over the big rottie as he guides Dean down the stairs. He doesn't miss the fact that, while Dante is extremely careful with Dean, he's not so concerned about where his body is in relation to Sam, his large rear end planting itself right where Sam needs to step next. Every. Single. Time.

"So you need exercise?" Sam says once they have cleared the steps and are standing somewhere in the middle of Bobby's junkyard. "You're sure about this?"

Dean nods hesitantly. He's still unsure of what Sam has up his sleeve and he's cautious about admitting his preparedness for Sam's scheme regardless of how much he wants it.

"You trust me?"

"With my life," Dean says, more conviction in that answer.

"Then let's do this. Put your hand on my shoulder." Sam doesn't wait for Dean to question, instead grabbing his brother's right hand and planting it firmly on his left shoulder. "Let's go."

Sam steps forward, moving slowly at first, but once Dean has gained his footing he starts moving faster and faster until they're at jogging speed. Beside them, Dante begins barking and jumping at them, frantic that Dean is being taken from his watch, that he might be unsafe. And while Dean is still somewhat apprehensive about this plan he snaps out a firm 'NO' to the dog that puts an immediate end to Dante's reaction.

A minute later they make a sharp right turn and the feel of the surface beneath their feet changes. "Where are we, Sam?"

"Just turned out onto the main road," Sam replies, picking up the pace just a little more now that the ground has evened out and he doesn't feel as concerned about obstacles in the path. "You doin' okay?"

"Yeah, great. How long are we gonna be out here for?" It's a freedom he hasn't felt since before waking up blind; the wind at his face, the feeling of just going forever, knowing that Sam isn't going to let him trip over his own feet or fall over some obstacle in his way.

"As long as you want to stay out here. You just tell me when to turn around."

"Dante's not here with us anymore," Dean observes, suddenly realizing he can't feel the normally constant presence of fur under his hand.

"Stayed behind in the junkyard. Why, do you miss your boyfriend already?"

Dean laughs and smacks Sam good naturedly somewhere on his back with the hand that had been gripping his brother's shoulder, without thinking. They run for another few steps before Dean realizes he's lost his contact with his brother and has a slight panic attack. He stumbles and calls out, "Sam!"

And then his brother is back, grabbing Dean's hand and putting it back onto his shoulder. "Right here, bro. Not going anywhere."

It's all happened so fast, going from security to anxiety and back to security in the blink of an eye. But then, as they continue to run along in silence he thinks back to his reaction when he lost contact with Sam, and realizes for a few beats he'd been running alone with no trouble. It was only once he'd realized contact had been lost that he stumbled. And suddenly it gives him more confidence, makes him realize that he's stronger when he forgets about his blindness. It's not so crippling after all.

He maintains contact with Sam, but now it's more just to be close to his brother instead of the need for protection.

They run in silence for several minutes before Dean breaks it. "Tell me what you can see." It's a request, but not a demand, and it knocks Sam off guard. For the time Dean has been blind he's yet to ask for anything more than the necessities. _What might I trip on? Where is the bathroom? What's on my plate?_ It's like he's finally getting comfortable with himself again, and Sam kicks himself for not thinking to do this sooner. Such a small and insignificant bonding opportunity, but it obviously means a lot to his brother. It means a lot to Sam, too.

"Trees," Sam finally answers, knowing better than to turn this moment into a despised 'chick flick' no matter how much he wants to. "And the sky."

"Smartass," Dean mutters. They both laugh. A real, genuine laugh. The first since Dean lost his sight. "Seriously, Sam. Tell me what I'm missing." And it's probably the deepest Dean has ever been willing to go emotionally.

"Well, um..." Sam looks around, soaking in the scenery flying by as he tries to figure out how you describe something to a blind man. Thankfully, Dean knows color and texture, so it's just a matter of details.

"The sky is perfectly clear. Not a cloud in sight, and about as blue as you can imagine - kinda white blue even. And the sun is shining brightly, but I'm sure you can feel the heat coming off of it."

Dean nods. "Yeah, it is kind of warm." He's been sweating since they left, but it feels good to be doing something to actually break a sweat. He's not about to complain. "What else?"

Silence passes as Sam decides what to describe next. "You know Bobby's pretty much out in the middle of nowhere, so I wasn't really lying when I said trees. It's all forest around us, mostly spruce and some oaks. Everything is green and healthy. There's been a lot of rain, I think, so all the plant life is thriving."

"There are houses somewhere along this road, though, aren't there?"

"Ummm, yeah," Sam says, having to think about it. "We passed one a ways back...before you asked. I think there should be more coming up."

"Oh, there are some wild flowers on the right," Sam is starting to feel more comfortable with this, and as he does so he's starting to see more worth talking about, too. "They're tall and yellow, with black centers. I think maybe daisies."

Dean snorts, trying to maintain his facade of tough in spite of everything else. "Sam, I don't give a damn about some pansy-assed flowers.

"Daisies, Dean, not pansies," Sam retorts back. He seems to recognize Dean's need to pull this as far away from a chick flick moment as possible, the sheer closeness the two are currently sharing is already encroaching on more than Dean can normally deal with.

"Yeah, whatever," Dean grumbles. "Just tell me about anything but flowers, dude, how 'bout cars?"

"Again, middle of nowhere here, Dean. The only cars we've passed have been on blocks buried underneath huge clumps of weeds."

"So nothing driving on the road, huh?"

Sam's sigh of exasperation should have been enough, but he speaks anyway, adding jokingly, "you're supposed to be blind, dude, not deaf. Have you heard any cars come this way?"

Dean goes silent, lets go of Sam's shoulder as his feet stop on the pavement and he bends over, hands on knees, sucking in deep breaths of air. Sam stops a few feet beyond, silent as well when he finally realizes what he's just said, afraid he's just screwed up their camaraderie.

"I– Dean, I'm sorry. I didn't mean–" He doesn't know how to continue, isn't sure if he should try to explain or simply apologize or just shut up all together. He waits, holds his breath as he watches his brother doubled over and breathing heavily as he tries to get his breathing back under control. "Dean?"

Another several seconds go by before Dean finally stands up, facing a large oak tree across the road and beams. "Had you going there for a second, huh bro?" A deep chuckle finds its way out of Dean and Sam just stands there, stunned, as he tries to make sense of what's just happened.

He'd thought for sure he'd just caused Dean to take two steps back in his recovery. It was the first time he'd ever spoken so candidly about Dean being blind, and as soon as it was out of his mouth he knew Dean wasn't yet ready for that kind of bluntness. And yet, here his brother stands, making a joke out of Sam's mistake, thinking quick on his feet and going so far as to prank him.

It takes a while for Sam to come out of his stupor, and by then Dean is laughing up a storm at Sam's reaction. Dean doesn't have to see to know Sam is standing dumbstruck and all emo in the middle of the road, worrying about calling Dean out on his blindness. He can feel the tension, hear the sharp intake of his baby brother's breath.

"You jerk," Sam says, all anger and anxiety erased from his tone by the time he manages to speak.

"Bitch," Dean retorts back.

And that's when they both know things are going to be okay.


	12. Chapter 12

**Hey guys - truth be told I'm not terribly happy with this chapter, but I've got to get past it and move on. I've kept you all waiting for too long. Once again, so sorry for the wait - but be assured that I will finish this fic no matter how long it takes me. We all complain about real life, so I know it's nothing new to any of you and it sure as hell isn't an original excuse - but that's about all I've got right now. So, if you can find it in your hearts to forgive me then please enjoy and keep your fingers crossed that I can get a few more chapters written over the upcoming holiday! Thanks for reading. **

Finding success on their jog is sort of the turning point for Sam; the point where he realizes this isn't just about helping Dean to adapt to his new life, but that it's also about helping Dean recover parts of his old life that he's missing. And by early the next morning Sam's got another idea steeping in his over-worked brain.

He's thrilled; Dean's going to love this - absolutely _love_ this new plan. It's really all he can do to keep from waking his brother up and dragging him out the door, and instead Sam putters around the kitchen trying to keep himself busy and his mind occupied.

To Sam's surprise, not only was Bobby excited over his idea, but the mechanic has the perfect spot to carry it out. Dean won't see it coming, and it will go a long way toward continuing to boost Dean's confidence in himself. Now he just has to wait for his lazy ass brother to get out of bed and start moving.

Nearly an hour later, when Dean finally appears in the kitchen, Sam is nearly jumping out of his skin and big brother doesn't need his sight to notice the change in atmosphere. But he isn't given the opportunity to ask about anything as Sam quickly shoves food at him and insists that he eat - quickly.

Thirty minutes later, Dean's been pushed back upstairs to get showered and changed and then shoved back out the front door to the car - still with no hint whatsoever as to what his crazy little brother has up his sleeve.

SUPERNATURAL

"Alright, Dean, we're here. Why don't you scoot on over."

Dean picks his head up and flinches, reacting to Sam's odd request the only way he can, and then slides over closer to the passenger door.

"Not that way," Sam eagerly corrects him. "Scoot over to the driver's side. Behind the wheel."

"Where are we, Sam?" Dean asks suspiciously. "What the hell are you talking about?" His face is a mixture of confusion and anger as he juggles his emotions. His brother isn't making any sense, hasn't since they left Bobby's, and Dean's about thisclose to calling someone up and hauling him off to the looney bin.

"You hearing this, Bobby?" Dean demands, hoping the older man isn't participating in Sam's cockamamey scheme. "Is he out of his mind or what?"

"Not out of his mind," Bobby's gruff voice cuts through the air from the back of the car. "Just a little bit off his rocker. But he's worked out the details here. He knows what he's doing."

"Does he, now? And what is it exactly that you're doing, Sam?"

"I just thought you'd want to get back behind the wheel of your car for a bit."

Sam notices his brother flinch, a look of fear and horror crossing his face before he quickly hides it behind his usual stoicism.

"And what, sit here and listen to music?" Dean asks, snidely.

"No," Sam is quick to answer. "Thought you'd like to drive it."

There is a heavy silence weighing down the air, lasting for ages before Dean finally growls out, "Is this some kind of a joke? Screw with the blind guy? Haha, Sam, real funny. There a video camera in the car to document this?"

"Absolutely not," Sam protests, horrified that Dean would think such awful thoughts about his character. "I just thought..." He sighs, runs a hand through his hair as he deflates. "I don't know what I thought. I just figured you'd like the opportunity." He goes silent, listens to the sound of Dean's heavy breathing, before muttering under his breath, "It worked for Pacino."

"What did?" Dean asks after a beat.

"Driving. Blind. In 'Scent of a Woman' he gets the other guy to let him drive the car and he manages just fine."

"That's a movie, Sam. In case you haven't realized this is real life."

Sam sighs and his breath hitches. "Yeah, which is exactly why I brought you here instead of putting you out on the road. There's no one else out here. No other cars to worry about."

"But I still can't see, Sam. I don't know where I'm going or how I'm supposed to figure that out. This isn't a good idea."

"I'll be your eyes," Sam protests, trying to suppress the exasperation in his voice. He huffs and jumps out of the car before turning back around and calling out to Dean. "Look, just scoot over and sit there for a few. Just give it a try."

He slams the door behind him and runs around to the other side of the car, opening the passenger side door before Dean's even had a chance to register that his little brother has left.

"Scoot over," Sam insists, as he climbs into the passenger seat, effectively forcing Dean to inch closer to the other side. "Come on, what have you got to lose?"

Dean stops just past the center line, still not lined up with the pedals and the steering wheel, but much closer than he'd been before.

"It's your car, Dean. Your baby. And it's perfectly safe."

"You don't know that for sure, Sam. Any number of things could happen."

"Not if you don't let it," Sam insists, giving his brother another little push towards the driver's seat. Dean allows himself to be moved, situating himself better on the seat and lifting his hands to the steering wheel. Slowly, his fingers curl around the steering wheel, as though meeting an old friend for the first time in years, trying to get comfortable and reacquainted. The rest of him is rigid too, unmoving, shoulders tense and tight, back stiff.

Watching Dean sitting so stiffly in the car, Sam finds himself questioning the logic in his once seemingly brilliant plan. Dean's gripping the steering wheel so tightly his fingers and knuckles have turned white from blood loss. He stares straight ahead towards the crater wall half a mile away, as though he can see the end to his joyride, knows the obstacle that awaits him. Yet in reality, Dean's eyes remain sightless and his leg bounces up and down, giving away his anxiety.

Knowing that saying anything at this point will only serve to agitate his brother more, Sam wisely keeps his mouth shut and hopes he can maintain enough composure to be a calming presence. In the back of the car, Sam watches Bobby doing the same thing, trying to appear relaxed with his arm laid across the back of the seat and one leg bent at the knee and resting on the seat beside him. The older man's eyes, however, gave him away. He is just as uncertain as Sam, now, as to wether his is the best of ideas.

It is Dean who ultimately breaks the tense silence, his head jerking wildly in Sam's direction on a fruitless effort to lock onto his brother. "I don't think I can do this, Sam." Dean finally spits out, disappointment clearly showing on his face.

At that moment, Sam finally realizes just what he's done to his brother, however inadvertent. In essence, he's just rubbing one more thing in Dean's face, offering it to him and than taking it away before he can actually grab on. Because going for a jog with Sam is one thing; Sam's life was never in danger as they ran through the sparse surroundings near Bobby's house. But sitting in the Impala, ready to put the beast of a car into motion, means putting Sam's life in possible jeopardy. It doesn't matter that Sam is assuring him they are nowhere near any obstacles. Doesn't matter that he's assured Dean the he will be his eyes. It is one thing for Dean to put his own life in his brother's capable hands, but another thing entirely for Sam to trust his life to his now blind brother. It doesn't appear to be something Dean can handle - and Sam should have considered that before setting this plan in motion.

"Dean, I'm sorry," Sam finally sighs. "This was a bad idea. I should have thought it out better."

His brother continues to grip the steering wheel, never relaxing. And was that disappointment on his face?"

"Dean?"

A hand shoots up, releasing its grip and silencing Sam. "Please Sam, just...don't."

Immediately, Sam looks back at Bobby, eyebrows raised in question. The older man shrugs, no more enlightened than Sam.

More silence follows, giving Dean the opportunity to wrap his mind around the situation. Sam doesn't dare speak again until his brother gives him the go ahead.

"You don't know what you're offering me here, Sam. You have no idea how much I want this."

_I think I do, _Sam thinks to himself, still knowing better than to interrupt. This is something Dean needs to come to terms with on his own.

"How far?" Dean asks again, in spite of the fact that Sam's already told him three times.

Sam is patient in his answer, knowing it isn't the time to show frustration. "Half a mile in any direction, Dean. It's that old strip mine right off of Old River Road. You know the place."

"What about holes or barriers? Rocks?"

"I've been all over this place. There's nothing that can hurt the car. And I will tell you when you get too close to the wall. Trust me, Dean, its perfectly safe."

"Says the guy who can see," Dean mutters dryly.

"It comes down to whether or not you trust my judgement," Sam finally declares, ignoring Dean's comment. He knows his own statement is a low blow, that it's bound to force a decision out of Dean one way or another, but they've already been sitting here for going on 45 minutes and its about time for Dean to choose. Shit or get off the pot.

Dean pulls his usual silence, chewing on his lip as he contemplates the challenge. "I trust you with my life," he declares, then hesitates. "I'm just not sure I trust you with yours."

Sam's not sure how to respond to that, and a quick glance back at Bobby tells him the older hunter isn't sure either. But as he mulls it over, realizing it's something Dean has been dealing with his entire life, his brother speaks up again, making the decision for him.

Dean sighs, if possible, hands gripping the steering wheel even tighter than before. "Damn it," he screams, and Sam's not sure if its anger or frustration.

"Damn it," Dean repeats, a little quieter this time, a little more reserved. He gives the steering wheel a half hearted slap. "Okay, let's do this."

Of all the responses Sam was anticipating after that outburst, this is not it, and he sits utterly stymied and speechless in its wake.

"Sam?" Dean asks, hunting for his brother in the darkness. "You there?"

Sam clears his throat. "Uh...uh, yeah. I'm here. I'm– Go ahead and start the car. Key's in the ignition.

He begins with the utmost caution, requesting that Sam and Bobby secure their seatbelts as he latches his own. He gets his hand halfway to the rearview mirror before realizing it won't be necessary to adjust it, and the mood in the car is immediately lightened as Dean begins to laugh.

It takes Sam a second longer to feel comfortable joining in, but soon he's chuckling with Dean, and not long after Bobby adds his own hearty chortle to the mix until the whole car has erupted into laughter.

That seems to be exactly what Dean needs to let go of all remaining uncertainties and finally convince himself to start the car. He's noticeably more relaxed as his hand goes for the ignition again, movements rote & ingrained, and turns the key. For a time Dean just sits there, listening to the rumble of the engine and reminding himself what it feels like to sit at the helm of such a powerful car - at the helm of his baby.

"Half a mile?" he asks one more time, looking for that final assertion.

"Half a mile," Sam agrees. Nothing more.

Dean just barely touches the gas, propelling the car forward close to ten feet before he slams his foot on the brake and brings the car to an abrupt halt.

Several jokes run through Sams' head at that, and had it been any other situation - had Dean been able to see, he would have been quick to jump on the opportunity. But as it is Sam reminds himself to keep his mouth shut and instead places a solid hand on Dean's arm.

Dean doesn't seem altogether scared, or even anxious, but rather just in need of that final minute to come to terms with what he's about to do. He relaxes at Sam's touch and loosens his grip on the steering wheel.

"No obstacles?"

"None."

Another deep breath. "OK"

His foot goes back to the gas, pressing a little further and propelling the car a bit faster as he gains confidence.

"Tell me when to turn, Sam," Dean says, this time his voice lacking any of the uncertainty that he'd possessed before.

"You can turn whenever you want," Sam replies. "I'm only going to tell you if you get too close to something. This is all you, bro."

Dean nods, gaining more confidence and more speed, and then turning the wheel. They make an easy turn, about ninety degrees, and then he presses harder on the gas pedal again.

"This is awesome!"

Sam beams with pride, turning around to Bobby to share in the glory of an idea well played, and then returns his attention to the canyon.

"Bout 200 feet," Sam says casually when he sees they're nearing the wall.

Nodding, Dean turns the wheel again, spinning the car on a 180 axis and skidding the tires just a bit. "Whooooo hoo!" he shouts, smiling now from ear to ear. Sam can see that the tension in his brother's shoulders has completely disappeared now.

Dean controls the car smoothly and expertly, years of sitting behind the wheel in this very car trumping his inability to see. He knows her inside and out, knows what she can do and how to get the best performance out of her. He's known her with his eyes closed long before he was ever rendered blind, and it's no longer a question of driving sightless. He may not be able to see, but he's certainly not blind. No - he's in control.

**OK, I was going to go just a bit further and leave this on a cliff hanger, but knowing my schedule as of late I decided not to do that to you guys. Next up - Sam finds a hunt that they can't turn down and Dean insists that he tag along. After all, if he can drive a car without sight then he can do anything. **


	13. Chapter 13

**_Hey guys! Here's another chapter for you. It's got a bit of a cliff hanger to it, and I apologize for that. but it was either that, or have me go a little further and leave you with an even bigger cliff hanger. Figured you'd probably appreciate the post instead of having to wait longer. Things have been busy, so the best I can tell you is that I will get the next chapter up as soon as I can! _**

**_On another note, seeing as how the majority of you are interested in the disability fics involving the boys, I wanted to send your attention to another author on the site who is writing a Dean amputation fic. If you liked my HOBAT, you'll probably enjoy this one. It's his first fic on the site and I want to encourage the concept! If you're interested, check out Avalanche, by coldfury1. _**

**_THanks again for reading! Enjoy! Until next time..._**

Over the next week things seem to fall into a comfortable pattern at Bobby's house. Dean is getting along much better now, finally having acquainted himself with the lay out of the house and the yard - although Dante is never far away, always ready to place himself between Dean and obstacles in his path. He spends much of his days down in Bobby's garage, working on whatever car the older man decides to pull in the stall each morning. So far he's fixed two radiators, replaced three sets of spark plugs, several brake pads and drums, and replaced more little odds and ends than he can count, and now Bobby's actually presented him with the task of rebuilding an entire engine from scratch. Granted, either Bobby or Sam has been hovering pretty close by in case he can't find something or the task proves to require someone with two good eyes. But for the most part he finds that by taking it slow and getting a good feel of the inner workings of the car before he starts taking it apart he can function pretty well. He's got enough years under his belt pre-blindness that he can pretty much remember where things should be. And it helps that he can still picture things in his head despite the fact that he can't see the real thing.

In the late afternoons Dean and Sam head out for a jog, going at least five miles and often more. It seems to be getting easier as they find their rhythm again, and now Dean's hand just barely skims the back of Sam's shoulder for a general idea of his brother's proximity. He's beginning to trust more - both himself and Sam - and it makes everything that much easier to handle.

By dinnertime everyone is exhausted, and all five of them - the two dogs and the three men - eat quickly before making a beeline for the living room and an evening's worth of relaxation. Most of the time they find something to watch on TV - something with a lot of dialogue and not much action, that Dean can understand without seeing what's going on. And more often than not most of them doze off before the show ends.

All in all things are beginning to become normal which, in Winchester Law, ultimately means that things are about to get shaken up.

SUPERNATURAL

It's eight days after Dean drives the Impala that Sam answers Bobby's phone and gets an earful from a fellow hunter about some strange stuff going on less than an hour south of the junkyard. He'd hoped Bobby could make a run down there and take care of it, asks if Sam would pass the information along to the seasoned hunter, and Sam assures the man he will.

Except that Bobby is away on a vehicle pick-up for the afternoon, and Sam has plenty of time on his hands with Dean outside working fervently on the old engine. So Sam takes it upon himself to do the research on the hunt - and gets it done in record time.

By all accounts it's pretty cut and dry. A spirit haunting an old farmhouse, only one death in its entire history - the young wife of a farmer in the 1930's who died in childbirth. She was buried in the families burial plot, a plot that had recently been disturbed when an excavation crew mistakenly started digging at the wrong site. Seems pretty obvious who the spirit is and what needs to be done to be rid of her.

Reading over the material, Sam manages to convince himself that he can do this one on his own before Bobby even returns that evening. An hour to drive down there, two to dig up the plot and salt and burn the bones, and another hour to drive back. Four hours tops, and it's barely two o'clock. At this rate he'll be home by dinner time.

Grabbing his coat and keys, Sam runs out of the house and across the junkyard to the garage Dean's working in. Dante raises an eyebrow as he storms in, but otherwise remains where he is, safely planted near Dean's leg as the young Winchester sits at a counter working on the engine.

"Hey Dean," Sam calls, knocking on the doorframe at the same time. He winces as his brother jumps, regretting the abruptness to which he arrived. "Sorry, didn't mean to scare you. I thought I'd head out for a bit, run a few errands. You gonna be alright here for a while?"

Dean hesitates for a minute, then reaches out to the countertop, seeking out a free space before setting down the piece he's got in his hand. "Mind if I come with you?"

Damn, hadn't expected that one. Sam stammers over his response, "It's uh...gonna be boring, just uh...ya know, groceries and supplies and stuff. Thought you'd want to be working on the engine."

"Dude, I've been working on this damn thing for the past two days. I could use the break. It would be nice to get away from here for a while."

Sam pauses again, twisting his hands around each other as he tries to figure out a way to keep Dean from going on this trip.

But just because Dean's lost his sight doesn't mean he's lost his other abilities. If anything, things are more enhanced, and Dean is quicker than Sam. "You trying to hide something from me, Sammy? Got something you're not telling me?"

"No, of course not," Sam says, altogether too quickly. It gives him away.

Dean chuckles. "When it come's to lying, you've always been your own worst enemy, Sam. Now come on, what's going on? What don't you want me to know?" He gets up from the stool and grabs his cane, tapping it out in a surprisingly straight line toward the door of the barn.

"Seriously, Dean. It's nothing. Just didn't figure you'd want to be out buying green beans and pork chops."

Standing just a couple of feet away from Sam, Dean turns in the general direction of his brother, sunglasses hiding the fact that his eyes are still settled somewhere to the left. "Didn't figure you would, either." He huffs in irritation. "We've been over this, Sam. I'm blind, not brain dead. I can tell when you're lying to me, and you, my friend, are definitely lying to me."

Sam sighs, knows when he's been beat. "Alright, alright, there's a hunt. It's a real simple one, but I just figured you probably wouldn't want to hear about it since...you know..."

"Since I'm blind?" Dean supplies. "Since I can't be out there helping you? Cause, you know, I'm so much happier not knowing that you're out there hunting, not knowing if you're hurt."

Sam stays silent, fiddles with the lint in his pockets and wishes he could just disappear.

"I think maybe you should wait for Bobby on this one, Sam. The two of you can go down there together and take care of this." He seems remorseful but resigned, clearly knows his days as a hunter have long since passed.

"I'm trying to take care of this one so that Bobby doesn't have to," Sam protests. "He's been running himself ragged taking care of us and the junkyard. I just thought he could use the break."

"Uh uh, Sam, no way. You're not going down there without backup. It's just not happening." The way Dean stands, arms crossed, muscles rippling under his black shirt, even though he's not looking directly at Sam it's still obvious that he means business. That he'll fight Sam with everything he's got to keep him from going on this hunt alone.

Sam sighs. He's tempted just to turn and run, banking on the fact that his brother won't be able to keep up, to find him, before he's long since left him in a trail of dust. But somehow he can't seem to bring himself to do that. He doesn't have the heart to rub his brother's face in the reality of what he can no longer do. But he's not giving up that easily, either, and what he says next surprises even himself.

"Alright, fine. Why don't you come with me."

He watches as Dean jerks, clearly not having expected that, of all things, as Sam's answer.

"We've been over this already," Dean replies. It's obvious that it kills him to admit it. "I'm not going to be of any use to you. You may as well be going alone for all the good I can do."

"But you're not gonna let me go on my own. And I'm not gonna drag Bobby into a simple hunt that I could do with one arm tied behind my back. So either you come with me, or I _do_ go alone."

Dean goes silent, taking a minute to think. Beside him Dante nudges at Dean's hand with his head, as if to say _I'm here. Take me with you and we'll be fine._

"We'll start out down there," Dean finally relents. He senses the smile that graces his brother's face immediately and holds up a hand to stop him. "_On the way down_ you tell me everything you know about this hunt. And I mean _everything_. I'll know if you're lying."

Sam nods his agreement, but silently.

"Speak up, Sam. I can't hear you nodding."

"Sorry," Sam mutters, immediately feeling ashamed at himself. "Promise - no lying."

"Ok. So once I've heard the details, then I'll decide if this is something you can do on your own. If I don't think it's safe we turn the car right back around and wait for Bobby. Agreed?"

He holds his breath as he waits for Sam's answer, knowing in truth that there's not a whole hell of a lot that he can do if Sam doesn't agree to the terms. But he has to hope that Sam's respect for him extends to trusting his instincts on a hunt...even blind.

SUPERNATURAL

By the time they make it to the hunt Sam has done a terrific job on convincing Dean that this is a simple, no worries, salt and burn. So good, in fact, that now Dean's convinced it's safe enough for him to come with Sam, help him out. At least keep him company as he digs. And the thing is, Sam can't exactly come up with a plausible reason why Dean shouldn't follow along since he can't turn it back around and say it's too dangerous.

Sam finds the farmhouse easily enough. It's set back far from the road, separated by its nearest neighbor by acres and acres of wheat fields on every side. But there's also a sign, albeit an old and falling apart sign, but a sign nonetheless that declares the name of the farm in faded black letters.

"They haven't done much for the road in a while," Dean observes as the classic Chevy bumps and jostles over the many potholes marring the hard dirt surface.

"Not much reason too," Sam replies, recalling details he'd dug up regarding this farmhouse. No one's lived here for years."

"So then why the construction?" Dean asks, although he's already been given the answer. And there's no doubt in Sam's mind that he remembers the details, too. Seems like he's just trying to get Sam off the topic of him coming on the hunt, too.

"This farm has been handed down through the family since it was built. I guess the current generation decided to try and fix it up, maybe move back here at some point. They had plans to build a new house on the premises."

"Well, let's see if we can make that possible for them," Dean says as he feels the car come to a stop. He's immediately got his hand on the door handle, preparing to exit the car before Sam has even turned off the engine.

"Dean–" Sam hesitates, trying to find the right words. But as he sees the signs of tension in his brother's body, the fear that he'll be told he can't help, Sam doesn't have the heart to turn him down.

"Just...come get yourself something for protection. You can have the EMF and, I don't know, some salt or something." He's not ready to give his brother a gun, and truth be told, he doesn't figure Dean would take one even if it were offered. There's too much chance for something to go wrong - too much chance for Sam to be on the receiving end of it. No way would Dean allow that to happen.

He sees his brother's body sag in relief and convinces himself that he's done the right thing as he watches Dean pull himself from the car and feel his way along its contours to the trunk. Scanning their weapons cache in search of anything he's comfortable giving Dean, Sam spies the material for the salt and burn, decides that will work. It's a normal occurrence for one of them to carry those materials while the other stands point. So it shouldn't be too much of a blow that Dean gets relegated to carrying them.

"Here, put these in your pockets," Sam says, handing Dean the lighter and the lighter fluid and the salt. He next grabs the EMF reader, turning the equipment on first, and hands those to his brother. You don't need sight to hear the EMF scream out the presence of a ghost, and Dean has learned to compensate enough with his other senses that he should have no trouble hearing the variations in the volume and the intensity. Dean nods, trying hard to keep a stoic face, but Sam can see it's tearing his brother up inside not to take point on this hunt. And he's obviously taken note of the fact that Sam hasn't handed him anything more dangerous than a canister of salt to ward off the ghost. But he has to commend his brother for trying to make the most of a harsh situation, and Sam does him the favor of not saying anything more about it.

Sam grabs one gun, loaded with iron rounds, and stuffs it in the waistband of his jeans. Grabs another loaded with rocksalt, and holds it at his side while he hefts the shovel over his shoulder.

"You ready?" he asks Dean, reaching for his brother's hand and planting it firmly on his shoulder.

Dean give's a nod and a slight squeeze to Sam's shoulder. "Let's get this bitch," he growls out, and steps off as Sam moves toward the back of the house to where they'd begun the excavations.

It's obvious where the excavation crew has been digging, equally obvious that the crew had up and quickly abandoned the job. There's a backhoe, still covered in dirt with half a shovelful settled in the scoop. A bulldozer stopped still, in the process of flattening out some ground. Shovels are laying helter skelter on the ground, amidst a few hard hats and beer bottles. Obviously the ghost had wasted no time making her presence known just as soon as they'd hit her grave.

Sam explains all of this in great detail to Dean as they make their way over to the excavation site. He's become quite adept at guiding his brother through obstacles such as these, and interrupts himself several times to announce the presence of a shovel or a mound of dirt, or any of numerous other obstacles that might trip the sightless man up.

Eventually they make their way over to the location of the grave, and Sam looks in to see piles of dirt strewn on top, with the old pine box just barely poking through. A few splinters of wood are mixed in with the dirt, indicating that the backhoe had managed to break through the box before they'd realized what it was. "Looks like they started trying to cover it back up just before she arrived," Sam observes. "This is even better than I expected. Digging won't take me any time at all."

"Good. Then just get it over with so we can get out of here." Dean says. "I feel exposed out here."

_You're the one who wanted to come,_ Sam thinks, but wisely chooses to keep his mouth shut. Instead, he drops the shovel to the ground and gets ready to jump into the open grave. "How's the EMF sounding?"

"Quiet as a church mouse," Dean replies, looking down at the meter out of habit more than anything else. He obviously doesn't see anything, and covers by keeping his head bent for several more seconds as he moves his hand and the box toward his brother.

"I don't need to see it," Sam replies, _god love him_. "I trust you. Now, do you want to sit?"

The idea of sitting in the dirt isn't exactly high on Dean's list of fun things to be doing, but he figures it's better than standing, afraid to move for fear he might end up in some hole. He nods, finds Sam's arm again, and allows his brother to lower him to the lip of the grave, legs dangling inside as he sits upright on the edge. He hears a rustle and feels Sam guide his hand over a few inches at his side until it brushes up against the smooth contours of his favorite shotgun.

"There's two cartridges of rock salt in there," Sam says hesitantly. "Just um...just don't shoot _me_."

It makes sense, Dean supposes. Sam can't exactly hold onto the shotgun if he's got both hands on the shovel. But still, even Dean has to wonder about the logistics of giving a gun to a blind man. Sure, the rock salt wouldn't kill his little brother, but Dean's got first hand knowledge to know it sure won't feel _good_.

Dean nods, just as tense as Sam sounds, and his hand grips harder around the barrel of the gun. "Wouldn't think of it." And it's the most honest thing either one of them has said since they left Bobby's.

Without further preamble Sam jumps into the open grave and begins digging out the last of the dirt from inside, offering commentary as he goes to keep Dean in the loop.

Maybe it's the fact that Dean's missing one of his senses, or the fact that Sam's talking too loud to allow either one of them to really focus on their surroundings. Maybe it's that neither one of them had expected trouble. But whatever it is, when their ghost sneaks up on the boys less than five minutes later neither one of them is fully prepared to react.


	14. Chapter 14

**_Sooooo, Im on a roll and that means you guys get to benefit from that. Two capters in a week - I think that's a record for me of late. Hope you all enjoy! We're winding down and nearing the end, but there's still more to come! Probably at least 3 more chapters, could be as many as 5. I'll try my best to continue to be this prompt. No promises, but I will try! Enjoy..._**

The EMF screams mere seconds before Dean feels a strong gust of wind blow past him, hears his brother grunt in surprise and the unmistakable crash and clatter as the shovel he's been using falls to the ground.

Dean tenses immediately, hairs on his neck standing straight up as his fingers grip around the ragged edge of the open grave. He shoves the EMF in his pocket, it having done its job, but barely, and grabs for the canister of salt instead.

"Sam?" Dean calls anxiously. He hasn't heard another sound from his brother and the silence is disconcerting.

"Yeah, right here," Sam answers. He sounds winded, but otherwise unharmed, and Dean catches the familiar sound of a gun being cocked before feeling his brother's hand on his leg, grounding him.

"She still here?"

There's a pause as Sam looks around, but the EMF has gone silent and things seem to be calming down again. Dean already knows the answer before Sam says it. "Doesn't seem to be. But I'm sure she'll be back. We need to be prepared."

"Thought this was supposed to be simple," Dean mutters under his breath.

"We've got to finish before she comes back," Sam says, and removes his hand from Dean's knee. Dean waits, listens, and finally hears Sam pick the shovel back up. A loud crack follows, as Sam slams the tip of the spade into the rotting boards of the old coffin. Once, twice, three times.

And that's all it takes for the EMF to come back to life. This time Dean doesn't just feel the breeze as the spirit soars past. This time he gets the full brunt of the attack as he feels himself lifted bodily into the air and goes airborne.

It's not the worst landing he's ever experienced, and he's still conscious which is saying a lot. But now his bearings are all screwed up, he doesn't know which way back to the grave or the car, barely even knows up and down.

"Sam!" Dean screams, and damned if that didn't sound all girly and wussy. But there is no reply, and it's only then that Dean realizes he wasn't the only one to go flying through the air. There's a slight groan somewhere off to his left and Dean calls out again, a plea this time.

"Sammy, come on, man, answer me. You gotta give me something." He pauses and forces a chuckle. "Blind here, little bro. I can't exactly do this without your help."

Yet the only reply is another groan and some rustling as though Sam is shifting or moving a bit. But he's clearly not coherent; no way would he be scaring Dean like this if he was.

The air has gone still yet again, and Dean realizes this ghost is playing with them, testing them. He vows not to let her win. "Sam, come on. Give me something. Answer me!" Dean calls, turning over to hands and knees and starting to crawl in the direction he thinks his brother is in, continuing to call out to him every few seconds in hopes that Sam will finally answer him.

It's not easy going, crawling over the cold, hard ground. There are sharp rocks and broken twigs mixed in with the mud and dirt, and they slice into his hands, dig at his knees. But he barely feels it as he moves through his own darkness in search of Sam. Dean can only hope he's moving in the right direction, because right now Sam isn't answering and the ghost is still out there, and being together is about the only way Dean can even hope that he can protect his little brother. _Hope_, clearly being the operative word. What he's supposed to do, how he's supposed to be of any use to Sam when he can't even see to load the stupid gun is a question he doesn't have time to worry about right now. Right now it's a matter of sheer, dumb luck.

Several yards later sheer, dumb luck finds Dean with a hand slipping down over the edge of the open grave. He catches himself quickly, drawing back and breathing heavily. Desperate, big brother logic says to abandon the grave to continue his search for Sam. But hunter's etiquette says he's got to finish the burn before assessing casualties. Sam's not going anywhere, and from the sound of it he's breathing. Taking a few extra minutes to ensure the ghost is gone is a reasonable thing to do.

Dean takes a deep breath to calm his nerves and pulls himself upright. Knowing there's no way Dean can get into and back out of the grave before the ghost comes back again, Dean decides to make the assumption that Sam has uncovered her enough to finalize the salt and burn without inspection.

He reaches into his coat pocket for the salt and the lighter fluid and leans over the grave to fully douse the contents below, emptying everything he's got to make sure he covers the entire body.

"Burn, bitch," Dean says, striking a match and tossing it into the grave. He hears a loud whoosh and feels the heat as the old, dry contents below him go up in flames. The ghost makes one final show, driving her transparent body straight through Dean and leaving an unbearably cold feeling deep inside his body, like sharp fingernails scratching all over his organs and muscles.

He collapses immediately, hugging his arms around his body as he rolls beside the open grave with a moan, chills racing up his spine, tremors wracking his body. Time goes still, laid out like an open wound, and for what seems like an eternity Dean has no knowledge of anything surrounding him. He's not only blind, but also deaf and dumb, paralyzed. He can do nothing but just lay there and work through whatever whammy has been done to him by the ghost in her death throes.

And then in an instant time speeds back up again and all senses come rushing back to Dean in one huge wave. All, that is, but sight. For a moment he just lays there, blinking, still not used to this blindness that has now consumed him for months. He tries once again to orient himself, hands reaching out and pawing the ground around him until he finds the lip of the grave, feels the heat of the flames that continue to hiss and crackle inside.

He's on his hands and knees the minute he hears Sam groan, still off to the left somewhere which, he supposes is a good thing. Means he hasn't completely managed to turn himself around.

Within a few feet his hands slip over the barrel of the abandoned salt gun, and he unconsciously checks the safety before tucking the gun in the waistband of his jeans. Then resumes his search of his brother without wasting a second.

"Sam, come on. You gotta answer me," Dean pleads again. This time his efforts are rewarded with more than just a groan as Sam calls out his name.

His little brother's voice is weak and unguarded, and the pain more than anything else works as a homing beacon for Dean. He turns, picks up his pace, crawling faster in the direction of Sam's voice.

"Again, Sam. I need you to keep talking. Help me find you," Dean prompts.

Another second passes, then, "I'm over here. You're almost to me."

Sam's voice does seem louder, closer, and it's not much further before Dean's hand bumps into a shoe, climbs the obstacle and follows it down to trace the unmistakable feel of thick socks and dirty jeans.

"Sam, I'm here. I gotcha," Dean says unnecessarily. He works the rest of the way up his brother's body in search of his face and stops short at the shoulder when he runs into something sticky and wet, hears Sam's hiss of pain.

"God, Sam, what the hell?"

"Rebar," Sam says shortly, followed by another hiss of pain. "Went clean through and out the other side."

"How bad?"

"It's fine," Sam answers, too quick. Dean sees right through it.

"Sam," Dean warns. "Tell me the truth. How bad is it?"

There is a short pause, another sharp intake of breath. "Honest, Dean, it's just a flesh wound. Didn't hit anything vital, but–"

"But what, Sam? You gotta be straight with me here. I can't see it to fix it so you gotta walk me through this." It kills Dean right now to admit how useless he is, to know that he's not running up to par, can't take care of his little brother the way he should.

"Well, I'm kinda stuck to the ground here, Dean. Got about 8 inches sticking out the front of my shoulder and most of the rest is buried in the dirt."

Dean sits back on his haunches for a minute, runs a nervous hand through his hair before reaching out to gently prod around Sam's shoulder and the rebar as he tries to ignore the sounds of pain the movement elicits. Sure enough, there's a good half a foot and then some of quarter inch rebar sticking out from the front of his brother's chest. From what he can tell, Sam's right, it's only gone through the meat of his shoulder, just underneath the joint, but that fact doesn't make his little brother any less stuck to the ground beneath him.

Breathing hard, Dean sits back again and wipes his hands down the front of his jeans. He's feeling out of control here, helpless and impotent. His mind reels, and it's all he can do to bring himself back to the present and forget about his handicaps. _Get yourself together, you idiot. Sam needs you!_

"OK, Sam, here's what's going on." His voice is slow, controlled, forced. "The ghost is gone, grave is still burning, so we don't have to worry about her, alright?"

He waits for an answer, finally realizes Sam is nodding instead of speaking.

"Sam, I can't see you nod, remember?"

"Sorry, yeah, got it. Good job." There is enough awe and pride in the response that Dean can't help but stop for a minute to reflect. He's just dispatched a ghost...on his own. Blind. He's not completely helpless. Something in that realization gives Dean the confidence he needs to rally himself for the rest of the task.

"Can you see the car from here?"

"Yeah, couple hundred feet away."

Dean takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, wrapping his mind around the next step, wishes like hell that he had fought harder to bring Dante along. "I need you to be my eyes, Sam. I've got to get to the car, get the bolt cutters from the trunk so we can get you out of here. But I need you to guide me to it, okay?"

Sam seems hesitant when he replies, and Dean's not sure if it's uncertainty over his own abilities or Dean's. But he chooses to ignore the tone after Sam finally replies in the affirmative. Now is not the time to be second guessing himself.

"How's your head? You gonna be able to shout when I get further away?"

"I'll manage," Sam replies. Dean can tell he's forcing it, figures that for as long as he was out his little brother's gotta be seeing double, fighting off a doozy of a headache.

"K. Just remember, I'm counting on you here." It's a cruel thing to say, but he's gotta keep Sam's head in the game, and right now he's just not so sure it is.

"No problem." There's more conviction behind that one, and Dean finally convinces himself to climb to his feet.

It's not as hard as Dean had anticipated it being. Not as easy, either. But Sam's got a good handle on his left and right, the hands of a clock, and he manages to guide Dean the distance to the car without too many slip ups. Dean doesn't fall once, in spite of the fact that he's moving much faster than he has rights to be, but he does trip a few times, comes to an 'almost fall' over several lumps of dirt.

They both assume it's sheer luck and adrenaline that has Dean finally plant both palms against the driver's side window of his precious Impala. He takes a few seconds to catch his breath, return to normal.

"Dean!" Sam calls out to him after he's stood there, back to little brother, for what was apparently too long. "Dean, get your cane from the glove box!"

"I won't have enough hands, Sam!" he shouts back, already spurred to action feeling his way around to the trunk. "I made it here without it, didn't I?"

Sam doesn't have an answer to that, and shuts his mouth as a response. Now isn't the time for argument, and Dean does have a point.

Dean knows his car well enough to have a pretty good idea where he'll find everything. And sure enough, within seconds of having the trunk open his hands gloss over the large metal bolt cutters. Another few seconds and he finds the first aid kit, slings it over his shoulder and hefts the bolt cutters in the other hand before closing the trunk and turning back in the direction he had just come.

"Which way, Sam?"

Silence answers him, and immediately Dean is back on edge, fueled by nerves and anxiety.

"Sammy!" he calls again, louder, and finally, "SAM!"

"Yeah, I'm here." The groggy response is not exactly comforting to Dean, but it's better than nothing at all. He amps up the effort a bit, taking a few steps away from the car in the general direction of where he'd come from.

"You gotta help me get back to you, Sam. Come on, stay with me. You're my eyes, remember?"

"Keep moving straight ahead," Sam calls, voice weaker than it was a few minutes before. "You've got...got a big rock just on your right. Don't trip."

Dean nods, moves to the left a few steps. "Keep talkin' to me, Sam. What now?" He's trying to keep the panic out of his voice, but he's not sure it's working. Somehow Dean doesn't think it's the concussion that's got Sam so weak. It's the rebar; he knows it is. Sam's bleeding out, and if Dean doesn't do something soon he's not entirely sure what will happen - to either one of them.

Somehow Sam manages to stay conscious and lucid enough to get Dean back to him, and the pressure as the bolt cutters bite through the rebar at the back of his shoulder is enough to jolt Sam completely back to consciousness.

He screams and moans and rolls around as Dean apologizes over and over again. "There was nothing else I could do, Sammy, I'm sorry. I had to get you free. That was the only option. Shhh, it's okay."

Dean pulls Sam up against his chest for, careful of the rebar still sticking out of his little brother's shoulder. But this way Dean can feel everything, find everything, and he uses the position to his advantage as he applies bandages all around the wound and the bar, taking extra caution not to jostle anything more than absolutely necessary.

"OK, little brother, let's get you out of here," Dean soothes when the worst is over. He stands, feels around until he's got a grip of Sam's good arm, and starts to pull. "Alright, easy does it. I've gotcha."

Despite his best efforts, Sam still hisses against the pain in his shoulder, and nearly goes back down when his knees don't hold him at first. But Dean's strength is unwavering, and he fights against gravity to keep Sam upright until he can lock his knees and help a bit.

"Alright, let's get you back to the car."

"Mmm hmm," Sam groans, shaking his head slightly. "Gotta cover the grave back up first."

Incredulity is Dean's first reaction, and he can't help the way his mouth gapes open at the sheer thought of wasting that kind of time when Sam is this badly injured. "No way, Sam. I've gotta get you some help. Besides, I think I kinda set the shovel on fire, too."

"You did what?" There is a slight moment of coherency as Sam register's Dean's admission, and he laughs at the thought. "You burned the shovel?"

"Well I didn't exactly have time to climb down and get it. There was a ghost on the attack." Dean defends himself, a chuckle escaping through his own throat. "Come on, we'll call Bobby to come just as soon as we're in cell phone range. He'll finish this for us."

"That's exactly what I was trying to avoid," Sam protests. He's still fighting to turn them toward the grave, but his strength is waning.

Dean hoists Sam a little higher as he slides down some, knees weakening again. He gives a grunt at the effort. "I can't risk you losing so much blood that you pass out," Dean insists, playing one of his few cards. "You've got to be my eyes. We have to work as a team here, Sammy. Without you, I'm screwed."

That does it for Sam, the fear that something might happen to his brother while he's down for the count, and he draws up a little more strength, planting one foot in front of the other and guiding Dean back to the car.

When they make it back to the car they endure another momentary fight as Dean tries to lead Sam around to the passenger side of the car and Sam argues that he's okay to drive.

"You can't _see!" _Sam protests as Dean manhandles him into the passenger side, props him up against the back of the seat.

"And you're about to pass out at any minute," Dean rebuts. "If you pass out while driving you'll crash the car for sure."

"And if I pass out while _you're_ driving? How is that any better?"

"Because, at least I'll still be conscious. I can stop the car and hope someone comes along. Look, we just need to get within cell phone range. That's still on this stretch of road, right? How many cars did you pass on our way out here?"

Sam is quiet for a minute before he answers. "None."

"Exactly. Which tells us two things. One, I don't stand much chance of running into anyone while out there, and two, no one is going to be coming along to help us. So if you've got a better idea I'd love to hear it. But until then..."

Dean trails off, already scrambling over Sam to get into the driver's side without having to leave the car. The keys are already in the ignition, and Dean turns them without a moment's hesitation. "You've got to be my eyes," he reminds Sam.

Silence follows, and for a minute Dean's afraid Sam has passed out again. And doesn't that just shoot his plan all to hell. But then there's a slight sound of hesitation and finally his brother speaks.

"You've got a straight shot for about twenty feet. I'll tell you when to turn."

Once he starts moving Dean's confidence is immediately replaced by anxiety and he starts to wonder just what the hell he's been smoking that makes him think this is something he can do. The ravine was one thing, all flat and big and spread out. But here, now, he's got to keep the car on the road, out of ditches and away from trees. Not to mention the giant potholes that Sam had been struggling to avoid on the way in.

Dean drives slow, but steady, unwilling to give up now, not able to admit he's scared. He has to keep reminding Sam to talk to him as his brother's consciousness wanes and worsens. They make it out onto the main road, and already Sam is slurring his words some. Dean can only hope that they'll make it far enough out the road to get a signal before Sam goes out completely.


	15. Chapter 15

**_Still goin stong... Don't know what's gotten into me, but I can't say I'm complaining about it. This is setting up for the final corner - you should find out next chapter what I've got in store for Dean's prognosis. I will try to continue on my weekly posts, but be warned that I have 3 tests this upcoming week so I may end up taking a few more days. With any luck, though, the muse will remain and I'll stay on the roll I've created for myself. Hope you all are continuing to enjoy!_**

Like something out of a movie, Sam conveniently makes it just far enough to tell Dean they're back in cell phone range, wait out his brother cautiously pulling the car to the edge of the road, before he finally succumbs to the blood loss that's been threatening his well-being.

Dean knows it the instant Sam is no longer conscious, and his hands grope around his brother's body until he finds the carotid artery in Sam's neck, checking to make sure he's still alive. Feeling the pulse under his fingers, weak, but steady, Dean breathes a sigh of relief and reaches into his coat pocket for his cell phone.

He's learned the key pad by heart, knows exactly where the numbers are and the talk button by feel alone, and his fingers quickly tap over 911. Waiting out the operator on the other end is agony, greater still is the agony of knowing that Sam is now at their mercy. If no help finds them, there is nothing Dean can do about it.

Giving them the details of their location is harder than Dean expected it to be as he realizes he's really not entirely sure what road their on. He knows the name of town they're in, and that's a start, and finally manages to give enough information that the operator can pinpoint their location, tells him the ambulance is on the way and that they'll come upon them soon.

But when the operator finally tells Dean to sit tight and relax, disconnects the call, he starts to feel panic overwhelm him. He checks Sam's pulse again, listens to his breathing, makes sure the gauze he's packed around the wound is good and tight and not completely saturated in blood. And then there's nothing left to do but just sit there, blind, helpless once again.

"Bobby!" Dean finally shouts into the oppressive silence, remembering that he needs their old friend to come clean up the rest of the mess. He picks the phone up once again and hits the speed dial number for Bobby's house, hoping like hell that he's made it back from the pick up he'd been on.

The wizened hunter seems slightly annoyed when Dean announces himself over the phone, and immediately jumps into a rampage about the boys not leaving a note to say where they were going or when they'd be back. Dean has to interrupt him midway just to finally get a word in edgewise.

"Bobby, Sam's been hurt," he finally blurts out. And boy, wasn't exactly the way he'd planned that one. But what's done is done and he takes the ramifications as they come.

"He's what? Where are you boys? How the hell'd he get hurt?" Bobby demands, words tumbling out a sonic speed.

"We were on a hunt–"

That's all Dean manages to get out before he has to pull the phone away from his ear to keep from going deaf as well. Bobby's anger and concern is understandable, and Dean knows he's in for the reaming out of his life. But right now he's got bigger concerns. He interrupts Bobby right back.

"Look, Bobby, there's an ambulance on its way here right now, and I've got to get this out before they can overhear, alright?"

Bobby calms down, understanding the rationalization behind Dean's words, and listens intently as Dean tells him a shortened version of what happened and how he'd gotten Sam to their present location, asks the older hunter to come clean up the site and then meet them at the hospital, preferably with the car if he can swing it.

The older man grudgingly agrees, but not before informing Dean that their discussion is not over yet, both he and Sam have _a lot_ to answer too.

Dean hears the sirens before they've hung up, and he breathes a grateful sigh of relief, tells Bobby that help is here and he's got to go, then climbs from the car to flag down their saviors.

He stands there, pressed in between the open door and the frame of the car, and waves a hand frantically, although he's sure they're the only car out on the road right now. The siren gets louder, then stops with a final blip and the only sound left is that of the idling ambulance.

It seems to take an eternity between the time the bus stops and the time he hears the first voice. But then time speeds up and it's a frantic race from there on out.

"What's going on?" Dean hears a deep male voice ask.

"My brother…he's losing a lot of blood," Dean says frantically, turning so that he's facing inside the car again. "Sam, helps here. It's gonna be okay."

His brother doesn't answer, completely passed out and oblivious, and Dean feels his chest clench. Last he'd checked Sam still had a pulse, but anything could have happened in the time it's taken him to flag down help. He hears the sound of one door creaking, then another, and guesses there's a paramedic in the backseat as well as one at Sam's side.

A pitchy female voice joins the male, and the two speak back and forth to each other for a minute, assessing Sam's condition. Dean catches little clips and snippets of their conversation. Mention of IV's and thready pulse, non-responsive, bloodloss.

"What's going on? Is he alright?" Dean begs. He hates that he sounds so desperate, but there's not much else he can do. He can't see the situation for himself, doesn't know enough medical jargon to understand what they're saying. It's his brother, for christ sake.

"You packed this yourself?" the male voice asks again, finally at least speaking to Dean.

He nods hesitantly, expecting to be scolded.

"You did a good job, kid. May just have saved your brother's life with that move. He'da bled out if you'd pulled this from his shoulder."

Dean breathes a sigh of relief. Only allowing himself to hear the good in the comment. "So he's going to be okay then?"

"There's still a lot of blood. And he'll need surgery. We gotta get him to the hospital. But you did good."

That's not really the answer Dean's looking for. It's too ambiguous, too uncertain. He opens his mouth to ask for more, but stops mid-sentence when he makes out the sound of the medics getting ready to load Sam onto the stretcher and move him. Dean holds his breath to the three count, and winces with Sam when the shifting of his body wakes him enough to gasp in pain.

"Sam, it's okay," Dean calls out, wants his little brother to know he's still there with him. "Just hold on a little longer. They're gonna get you to a hospital and get that thing outta your shoulder. You hear me?"

Sam groans a response that Dean can't quite make out, but the sheer fact that his little brother is making sound is enough to ease his mind. Dean hears the rattle of the stretcher being pulled up as its wheels drop to the ground, hears the sound of the doors shut and the female medic say "Let's roll." He closes his own door and works his way around the side of the car after them, unsure what he'll do once he runs out of vehicle to hold onto.

"Sorry kid," the deep voice says, just as Dean reaches the trunk. "Don't have enough room in the bus. You're gonna have to follow in your car."

Dean lets out a sort of huff through his nose in disbelief. Apparently these medics have been too busy with his brother to notice that he hasn't exactly been making eye contact. He's not entirely sure how to feel about that, grateful that they've been so focused on Sam, but unable to understand how anyone can miss his disability. To him, it's about as obvious as the grand canyon.

"I, uh...I can't drive a car," he finally stammers, thinks how ironic it is that he actually _did_ just drive the car.

That fact hasn't escaped the paramedics notice, either, and he hears the man's deep voice ask, "You drove it to here, didn't you?"

"I drove it until he passed out," Dean says, feeling utterly useless in his admission. "We had to make it to cell range, and he kind of...directed...me. I...I'm blind." He points to his eyes, then immediately looks down at his feet, too afraid of what they'll see if they look too closely.

"You drove a car blind?" the medic asks incredulously, and Dean can't tell if it's amazement over his achievement or over his stupidity that has him reacting the way he does.

"Didn't have any other choice," Dean says, shrugging. "My little brother needed help. Now can I ride with you to the hospital or not?"

The response is quick, stammered. "Yeah_, _yeah you can ride up front with me. Just let us get your brother settled in the back and I'll come get you. If you need to bring anything with you, you might want to grab it now."

At first Dean shakes his head, no. He's got his wallet and Sam's, got his phone, and the car keys. That should be enough. But then he realizes where they're going, that he'll be alone until Bobby can get there, grudgingly decides that maybe having his cane might not be such a bad idea.

As quickly as he can Dean makes his way around the car. His cane is in the glove box, and Dean makes fast work of grabbing it. When he stands back up, closes the door behind him, he can hear footsteps coming towards him and the guy's voice breaks through the air once again.

"K, he's all loaded up and ready to go. We gotta move. Can I give you a hand to the bus?"

Throwing all pretenses aside, Dean nods. "Just give me your arm. And...a name?" Right now all he's got to go on is the voice and Dean feels he needs more than that. The guy's taking care of his brother after all.

Feeling the familiar slippery feel of the standard polyester EMT jacket near his hand, Dean grabs onto the man's bicep and allows himself to be led the rumbling ambulance several feet away. "I'm Gene," the medic growls out. "My partner is Eva."

Dean nods, gives him his own name, and climbs into the waiting seat as fast as he can. It's almost too quiet in the space behind him and Dean immediately feels the need to check on his brother, make sure things are going alright with him.

"Sammy, you awake back there, man?" he asks, turning his body to face the back despite its futility; not like he can see anything anyway.

Eva's voice filter's from the back. "He's resting again. But he's stable, holding his own."

Feeling the ambulance pull away, Dean braces himself and waits out the ride. It's thankfully uneventful, although he finds the siren and the constant back and forth commentary with the hospital to be a bit disconcerting. Dean tries to listen as best he can, to focus on the medical jargon and work out what it all means, but there's too much noise, too much distraction, and ultimately he gets no more information than he'd been able to glean on his own.

As they near the hospital Gene takes some time to tell Dean what's going to happen, about the organized chaos that will surround their arrival. He suggests that Dean stay put in the ambulance until Sam has been turned over to the staff at the hospital, and then Gene will come back and get Dean, get him settled in the waiting room. As much as Dean hates to accept the solution, he realizes it's probably his only option. Without Sam to guide him he doesn't stand a chance at finding his way anywhere in the massive hospital. It's a disaster in the making.

It may be the hardest thing Dean has ever had to do, remaining seated in the ambulance as his brother is whisked away by the ER staff. He's come to terms with Gene's point, and fully appreciates the fact that the EMT even gave thought to Dean's ability to find his way through the hospital on his own. But that doesn't make it any easier to let Sam be taken from him. He's not used to being so out of the loop on Sam's care.

An eternity seems to pass after the initial frenzy when they pulled into the ambulance bay, and Dean soon finds his anxiety rising. Gene needs to get back now, needs to help him into the waiting room where, at the very least, the doctor's can find him when they have news on Sam. When Dean thinks he can no longer stand not knowing what's going on with Sam, he grips onto the door handle and yanks hard, letting his frustrations out on the small square of metal. In his other hand, he's got his cane clutched in a death grip, almost certain that his fingers are turning white from blood loss.

He slowly slides from the idling bus, cautious until his feet finally touch solid ground. Taking a deep breath to control his nerves and talk himself through the next step, Dean unfolds the cane and carefully begins to move it from side to side as his hand drags along the side of ambulance, taking slow steps.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

Dean jumps at the intrusion to his silence, but recognizes the voice as Gene's and quickly relaxes. He's just reached the edge of the vehicle and would have soon had to rely solely on his instincts to get inside.

"Couldn't wait any more. You were taking too long."

Gene sighs, although whether it's frustration or resignation Dean isn't sure. Regardless, the EMT wisely chooses to forego a fight and simply help. "Sam's being examined as we speak. Come on, I'll take you to the waiting room."

Dean nods, and finds Gene's arm, latching onto it in a firm grip. "Thank you," he whispers hoarsely, surprised at how easily the words slide off his tongue. It's not easy asking for help, especially from strangers, but Dean has quickly realized that some things are worth biting the bullet for. Sam is one of them.

They work their way through hallway after hallway, up an elevator, and down another hallway before Dean finally feels his hand being placed on the armrest of a chair.

"We're not in the ER anymore, are we?" he asks, lowering himself into the padded vinyl chair and folding up his cane. He can tell it's a small room, can hear the whispered conversations around the room.

"This is the surgical waiting room," Gene answers. There is a creaking sound and a whoosh of air as the paramedic sits beside Dean. "Sam is still in the ER right now, but he'll inevitably be taken up to surgery. I've already given the doctors and nurses a heads up on where to find you. They'll come here when they have news."

"Thank you," Dean says for the second time in ten minutes. "You've gone above and beyond. I really appreciate it."

"It's not a problem, Dean. I'm happy to help. Is there anything else you need before I take off?"

Taking a minute to think about it, Dean can't really come up with anything he needs. Except, maybe, for Gene not to go. His chest clenches tightly, anxiety at the prospect of being left alone here, unprotected, vulnerable. It's one thing to be alone at Bobby's. He knows his way around, knows he's secure with the protection charms and symbols. This is a whole new ballgame.

But damned if he's going to admit he's scared. Puffing himself up, Dean shakes his head. "No, I'm good. Our uncle should be here soon."

Dean hears the medic release a breath, clearly relieved to know the boys have help on the way. "Okay, they I guess I'll be on my way. You take care of yourself, Dean. Good luck with your brother."

Dean chuckles at the comment, forming his own inside joke. _Oh, the luck I need to deal with him,_ he thinks. But doesn't share. Instead, waves a hand in appreciation.

And then is finally alone. For a while Dean just sits there, rigid in his seat as his hands fumble with the metal armrests. He can hear whispered conversations around him and assumes there are at least 3 other families in the waiting room with him, each lost in their own troubles.

Time goes by slowly, slower still when Dean realizes he isn't wearing the special watch Sam had gotten him, the one with the open face so he can feel the hands. He'd taken it off when he was working on the engine, afraid to bump it and break it. God, that feels like a lifetime ago; hard to believe it's only been a few hours since he and Sam left on this hunt.

Eventually he hears Sam's name called and stands up, looking in the general direction of the voice. A few seconds later and there is a hand on his arm, and he tries not to jump at the contact. "You're Sam's brother?" the female voice asks.

"Yeah, I'm Dean. How is he?"

"Here let's sit," she says, guiding him back to the seat he'd just vacated. "I'm Melody Thomas, I'm a nurse assigned to your brother's case."

"My brother," Dean pleads again, skipping past the introductions as politely as he can.

"He's stable right now. They're bringing him up for surgery as we speak. I just need to get some information from you."

Dean feels the agitation coming on again, and wrings his hands nervously. "I...I can't fill out any forms. I'm–" he gestures to his eyes, embarrassed, and tries to look away.

"It's alright," Melody assures him. "The EMT's who brought your brother in filled us in on your situation. We can wait until your uncle arrives to deal with insurance papers. Right now I just need some information on Sam's medical history, allergies, that sort of thing."

"Oh, okay." Dean says. "Well, in that case. What do you need to know?"

For the next several minutes Dean answers the nurse's questions the best he can, hears the scratch of pen on paper as she writes everything down. And then she excuses herself and he's all alone again, unsure how he should be reacting.

He's used to pacing the floors, punching walls, scheming to get beyond restricted borders. Yet right now he's certain he couldn't even find his way to the bathroom. This blindness has never felt more stifling, more inhibiting as it does now. Coming off the hunt, having been the one to ultimately salt and burn the bones, Dean should be on top of the world. Instead, he's wallowing in fear and self-pity, stuck sitting in this uncomfortable chair in a waiting room he doesn't know somewhere within the bowels of a hospital he's never been to.

When Bobby arrives half an hour later all Dean can think is 'thank god,' because he's finally not alone anymore.


	16. Chapter 16

**_Alright guys, here we go; another chapter. Sorry it took me longer than I'd expected. I've been inundated with tests, one after another! But I finally got the chapter out. We're nearing the end. I think another 2, maybe 3 chapters and I'm done with this baby. Hope you enjoy!_**

Sam is okay. He comes through the surgery with flying colors, wakes up from anesthesia without any complications, and it turns out the rod didn't hit any vital organs. He lost a lot of blood, will be in some pain for a few weeks, but otherwise shouldn't end up with any adverse side effects. And even though Dean can't see any of this with his own eyes he trusts his brother's voice, trusts Sam when he admits unwaveringly that he's a little sore, but otherwise alright.

As soon as they're sure Sam's going to be fine Bobby loses it, spends a good twenty minutes going on and on about how stupid they were to head out on the hunt unprepared. Turns on Sam for going in without backup, for dragging Dean along on his mission with no regard for his brother's well-being, no consideration as to what would have happened if Sam had been unconscious the whole time.

Of course, Bobby doesn't leave things with just Sam. No, he's got a whole slew of discipline to throw at Dean, too, which just makes things even worse. He rails at Dean for not using his brain, for not convincing Sam to wait for backup. It's a testament to how little any of them consider Dean a capable hunter anymore that Bobby discounts him as nothing more than baggage, and Dean and Sam don't bother to correct him.

Worst of all, Bobby berates Dean for being dumb enough to risk driving the car out on the open road. Never mind it was Sam's only chance at rescue, he's still upset that it could have led to an accident.

All the while Dean shrinks into the wall paper and feels about an inch tall as Bobby voices the same thoughts Dean has only been brave enough to think. He knows Bobby's is only speaking out of love and concern for the boys, probably only means about half of what he's saying. But that doesn't change the fact that it's got Dean thinking, worrying once again about how much of a liability he is to Sam, how his blindness could have gotten his little brother killed.

"None of this is Sam's fault," Dean insists, trying to place himself between Bobby and Sam. "He didn't do anything wrong."

"Don't you be protecting him," Bobby growls. "You both were stupid. You both made some bad choices out there."

"He's right, Dean," Sam adds. "I should have known better. All of this could have been avoided if I'd just put more thought into things before I talked to you." _Before I let you come with me_, remains unspoken.

But the whole conversation, both spoken and implied, is upsetting on so many levels and it's not long before Bobby finally drops it altogether in a huff and a foot stomping out the door. He's clearly angry, obviously needs to go somewhere to blow off some steam. But apparently he's realized what the accusations are doing to Dean, has decided that it's not worth continuing if all they're going to do is eradicate all the confidence boosting they've been working on with Dean since he lost his sight.

Sam makes a half-hearted attempt to holler after the older hunter, but stops when he sees Dean sitting there, shoulders slumped in defeat.

"I don't care what the old man says. You did good, Dean. You burned the body, you got me out of there, got me help. A lesser man probably would have just given up."

"I could have gotten you killed, Sam."

"The ghost was doing a pretty good job of that without your help, Dean. I don't really think anything you might have done would have made things worse."

Dean slumps further down in his seat, dead eyes staring at his hands instead of trying to find Sam. "None of this would have happened if I hadn't been there."

Sam sighs, frustrated. "If you weren't there I'd probably still be lying on that ground bleeding to death. Maybe already dead. You did fine, Dean. I can't have asked for better back-up."

It's a useless fight, one no one is going to win, and Dean really doesn't have it in him to tell Sam that backup with working vision would have been a hundred times better than what he took in. They end the argument in awkward silence, yet Dean stays in the room both because he has nowhere else to go and out of a still ingrained sense of need to watch out for his little brother. Him being blind will never change that, no matter how much everyone is convinced that he's no good to Sam anymore.

***

Over the next few days the tensions seem to ease up a bit. Bobby apologizes, seems to go out of his way to make up for the things he's said, and finally Dean finds himself forgiving his old friend if for no other reason than to get a break from the constant repenting.

Dean stays at Sam's side constantly, only leaving at mealtimes when he and Bobby venture down to the cafeteria for something that qualifies as food. But then it's right back upstairs to be with Sam.

It's the fact that he's always there that gets him talking to one of the nurses on Sam's rotation (by the sound of her voice she's young and pretty, and a quick consultation with Sam confirms that). Somewhere along the line he ends up telling the nurse the minimum details about his injury. She, in turn, passes the gossip along to a friend of hers, a nurse in ophthalmology, who just happens to mention it to one of the doctors on the ward, who takes an interest and seeks Dean out.

It's mid-afternoon on Sam's third day in the hospital and the brothers and Bobby are preparing for Sam's discharge later that evening. When the eye doctor appears at the door nobody even takes notice of him for several seconds until he finally clears his throat and re-knocks on the door, interrupting the flurry of packing and preparing.

They finally look up, expecting someone with Sam's discharge papers. Instead, they come face to face with an eager young man in a white lab coat.

"Dean Davisson?" he asks, clearing his throat again. His eyes fall immediately on Dean, easily finding the one guy in the room who isn't looking directly at him.

Sam is instantly on alert, and Dean senses his brother's tension. "Who wants to know?" Dean asks suspiciously.

"Dean, I'm Dr. Rick Hourman. I'm an ophthalmology surgeon. An eye surgeon," he amends. He crosses the room with confidence and stops directly in front of Dean, left hand on Dean's right shoulder as he holds his right hand out, tapping it lightly against Dean's clenched fist.

At first, Dean isn't quite sure what to make of the gesture. But eventually he pulls himself out of the stupor and cautiously takes the proffered hand. "I think there's some kind of a mistake here. We're here for my brother, Sam. I'm not the patient."

The doctor chuckles and releases Dean's hand, pulling up a stool and sitting across from him. He glances at Sam and Bobby, smiling politely, but addresses Dean's comment before making formal introductions. "There's no mistake here, Dean. Apparently one of my nurses got wind of your situation...with your eyes. She seemed to think I may be able to help, suggested that I give you a once over before you disappeared."

"I didn't ask for any help," Dean says solemnly. "My old doctors told me there's nothing they can do for me, so if you don't mind..." He leaves it at that, trailing off and expecting the man to take the hint and go on from there, leave.

Dr. Hourman's voice comes out gentle and soothing, but his words are very technical. "I don't know who your previous doctors were, Dean, but I have a feeling they were unaware of some of the surgical advancements available. I'm part of a team of only a few elite doctors across the country who have been working to develop a special corneal replacement surgery. It's very new, only in the beginning stages. We've only had five other human subjects, and of those, only the most recent two were a success.

Dean lets out a snort and raises both hands in an expression of disbelief, wishing he had the capability to catch Sam's eye and share this moment with his little brother. "Lemme get this straight. You've sought me out because you heard about me through the gossip grapevine; Managed to make it here literally minutes before I walked out of this hospital for good. All this so that you can offer me a surgery that only has a success rate of two subjects out of a grand _total_ of five? And you actually want me to agree to this?"

"Well when you put it that way," the doctor says, still not losing the light-hearted tone he's brought to the room. He sighs and leans forward, fingers falling to Dean's knees. It's all the hunter can do to keep from pummeling the doctor for touching him, but he manages to keep his cool enough to simply move his legs out from under the man's touch.

"Look, Dean" Dr. Hourman says, unfazed by Dean's show of discomfort. "I'm offering you an opportunity here, and hopefully we can do something about your eyesight. Right now, all I'm asking is that you hear me out and agree to some preliminary tests, just to see if you're even a viable candidate. From there, it's up to you whether or not you actually decide to go ahead with the surgery, but honestly, you've really got nothing to lose. If things fail, you're in no worse shape than you are right now. And if it works, well, you've got your sight back."

Dean tenses up, fists clenching down at his sides. "I'm sorry, doctor, really I am. But I don't think I can be a part of your study. I'm not all that eager to be a guinea pig for your experiments, and quite frankly, my brother and I really can't handle anymore disappointment."

"Dean!" Sam's voice breaks through the air, hissing in frustration and angst. "What the hell are you doing?"

Turning toward the direction of his brother's voice Dean stubbornly crosses his arms and shakes his head. "Even if I wanted to do this, Sam, we don't have the money for it. We're gonna be paying out the wazoo just trying to cover your little unplanned side trip to the hospital."

He hears some shuffling and then the doctor's voice breaks in once more. "That's part of the beauty of this procedure, Dean. Because it's still in the experimental stages all participants receive their medical costs pro bono during the length of time you're participating in the study. There's no cost to you for any of the medical expenses that are incurred in relation to this surgery."

"Dean, I think you should look into this," Sam says, the anxiety sounding clearly in his tone. He's desperate, and it doesn't take much to realize he's just as desperate to see Dean's sight return to normal as he is to see their lives return to normal. With Dean incapacitated as he has been they've been dealing. But that's it; just dealing. They're not moving forward with anything, no challenges or goals. And it's pretty clear that they're not really in a position to be out hunting. The fact that they're in a hospital waiting for Sam's shoulder to heal pretty much seals that confirmation.

"Sam's right, Dean. You won't be out anything just to hear the doctor out," Bobby adds.

For a while, Dean just stays quiet. It's more out of principle than anything else, because, let's face it, Dean would do anything for Sam. So with Sam asking, he's pretty much guaranteed to say yes. But that doesn't mean he's won't make the kid sweat it out for a few, first.

* * *

It's not exactly anxiety that Dean's feeling as he sits in a plush leather chair in the doctor's office, but he sure as hell isn't calm either. His heart's racing a mile a minute, hands shaking and body sweating; all signs that can easily be misinterpreted as nerves. But he's not nervous, because being nervous would insinuate that he cares about the outcome. And he doesn't; he doesn't care at all whether this guy can give him his sight back or not. He's only here for Sam, because Sam asked him to give it a shot. And really? He's just here to prove to his little brother once and for all that there's no chance this could work. He's already resigned himself to living in darkness permanently, and there's nothing that's going to change his mind on the subject.

So why is it that he feels so goddamn tense?

Dean senses the beat of footsteps through the floor first, then hears the whoosh of a door sliding over carpet. Dr. Hourman spares no time between stepping into the office and announcing his presence, has obviously spent enough time with blind people to know how to act around them. With the promptness between greeting the three occupants in the room and reaching for Dean's hand he knows the doctor has once again bypassed greeting Sam and Bobby to shake hands with Dean first, and he instantly finds himself with a grudging appreciation for this guy. Since he was blinded barely anyone even acknowledges him at all, let alone first. Lately he's felt like a pariah in his own life, on the outside looking in – figuratively of course.

There is another rustle of footsteps, the sound of wheels rolling over plastic, and a creaking as Dr. Hourman sinks into his own chair across from his desk. "I'm so glad you decided to come hear me out," he says.

Dean nods, purses his lips, but otherwise remains stoic. He's not ready to give the guy anything, not ready to offer his agreement or his trust until he hears what the man has to say. For him, his mind is already made up. He can't go through a surgery that's bound to fail, can't put Sam through the rollercoaster of hope only to crash and burn on the other side. It's not worth the heartache that's guaranteed to come of it, and quite frankly, he's really not even sure why he's here in the first place. Other than the fact that Sam asked. Begged.

He hears a sigh come from his little brother, and then feels a hand come to rest on his knee, adding more pressure than he thinks is necessary until he realizes the hand serves a purpose. Well shit, hadn't even realized he'd been bouncing his leg like that. Must be cold in the room, cause it's not nerves. Definitely not nerves.

Taking a deep breath, Dean leans back into the seat and forces himself to relax and loosen up. He'd really like to just let his mind wander and hope the meeting goes by quickly so he can just say no and be done with it, but he's promised Sam he would actually hear the doctor out. So he cocks an ear to the side, toward the doctor, and waits out his spiel.

An hour later and Dean is more confused than ever. Not by what he's just been told, because he understands every word of that. Dr. Hourman is thorough and easy to understand, speaks in a language that is both civilian friendly and blind-friendly. What Dean can't see in pictures, Hourman makes up for in the flourish of his descriptions. And maybe that's the problem, because understanding exactly what the procedure entails and how it could work has Dean wondering if maybe it _could_ work for him; if maybe there _is_ a chance that he could have his sight back.

He doesn't want to believe, doesn't want to trust in a surgery to give him back everything he's lost. There are too many factors that can go wrong. And he doesn't want to build up his hope and his trust only to have it deflated on the other side of the surgery. When he looks at the numbers as two out of five the odds aren't in his favor.

But when he sees them as two successes out of the last two surgeries, that it was the first three that failed and by all rights they've managed to improve their technique since then. Well, then things begin to look a little more encouraging. And maybe he's got a shot…

Somewhere along the line as they sit there Dean hears himself say 'OK.' And then immediately feels the fear of failure clench at his chest and he wants to reach out and grab the word right out of the air and suppress it. Pretend he never said it.

But Sam is so quick to jump on the acceptance, so eager, like a little puppy that can't contain his excitement. And Dean can't bring himself to kill his little brother's hopes like that. But he's got to get him calmed down, at least.

"Sam, I said okay to the tests," Dean says sternly, hoping that the waver in his voice isn't as noticeable as it sounds to him. "But that doesn't mean the surgery is going to be an option. I have to fit the criteria, first. Don't go getting so excited until we know this is possible."

Sam instantly stills, composes himself. But still can't keep the conviction out of his voice. "Of course not, Dean. Tests first. But I think this will work; no, I know it will. It has to."

Dean purses his lips and fights with himself against saying more. They're both in a stubborn mindset and right now trying to fight Sam on his opinions will only waste precious time and energy, energy he needs to make it through the next several hours of testing they've got him lined up for.

God bless Bobby who chooses that moment to finally join the conversation. "It's close to noon now, boys. And I think Dr. Hourman has tests set up starting at 1:00. What say we head over to the cafeteria for a quick bite to eat and a break from all this dadburn thinking."

When Hourman is the first to agree, Dean knows Bobby must have been looking to him for permission to cut out for the next hour. He's grateful to the mechanic for easing the tension in the room, and he quickly stands and nods his head in agreement, stomach growling just a little in confirmation.

Clutching his cane in his left hand Dean waits patiently for Sam to come around and offer his left arm, the right still held tightly in a sling. It's rather strange walking to the other side of Sam, using the cane in what feels like the wrong hand, and he's eager for his brother's shoulder to heal so that he can get back to normal routine. And then his thoughts wander back to the surgery, and the realization that if things go as planned he might just be done with the whole "relying on my brother" thing before Sam's shoulder is better. And shit if that just gets his hopes up even more.

They walk as a group through the halls of the hospital, sidestepping patients and family members, doctors and nurses, and Dean realizes his sensitivity to it is far stronger today that it has been in a while. He's hyperaware of the number of times Sam has to warn him of impending obstacles, the number of times he's pulled to the right or the left to avoid running into someone, the amount of murmured apologies from others as they apparently make an overt attempt to step out of the way. All of a sudden it's as though every challenge he's experienced since he woke with no sight is suddenly replaying in their trek to the hospital cafeteria, reminding him that he needs to keep an open mind to a possible cure.

It's more than once that Dean has to snap at Sam to stop talking about the tests and the surgery. He doesn't want to discuss it right now, doesn't want to even think about it. He just needs some time to process and reboot. Right now he needs to be thinking about mundane things, like how to take apart and put back together a gun and the best way to dispatch a spirit; things that don't take a lot of dwelling on to figure out the answer. He just needs to focus on stuff that he _knows._

Lunch goes by way too fast for Dean's liking and before he knows it they're back in the office and Dr. Hourman and another of his colleagues are preparing to take Dean back for the requisite tests. Sam follows them back, acting as Dean's guide, while Bobby excuses himself for the rest of the afternoon and orders the boys to call when they're done.

For the next several hours Dean finds himself subjected to test after test, from something as simple as allowing a light to be shined into his eyes to the evermore painful scraping of scar tissue. That one hurt, no matter that Hourman used a numbing agent first, and now he's walking around with two gauze eye patches underneath his sunglasses. If he'd known from that start that that was part of the deal he's not so sure he would have agreed to the tests.

But what's done is done, no going back now, and at the end of the day he finds himself frustratingly eager to find out the results.

Bobby's back, and the trio find themselves once again sitting in the office chairs awaiting Dr. Hourman's arrival. He'd run off to finalize results of one last test, and assured them he'd be back soon.

Like before, Dean senses the doctor's arrival long before he's actually in the room and he stiffens considerably. Sam reads the body language and knows something's up, automatically reaches out and squeezes Dean's hand as the doctor enters the room and crosses to his desk.

"I've got good news for you," Hourman immediately says, wasting no time. He seems just as giddy as Sam, although manages to contain himself a little better, more professional.

Dean perks up, but tries to look stoic nonetheless. He's not excited about this. He's _not!_

"It looks as though you are a candidate for this procedure, Dean. I've arranged to get you started on some antibiotics and pre-op meds, and I've scheduled surgery for a week from Tuesday. That is, if you're in agreement."

Before Dean can actually say anything, Sam is already jumping in, like an eager puppy unable to sit still for his treat. "Oh, he is. He'll do it."

Really, Dean would love to yell at Sam and tell him he needs to calm down, breathe, and give a little thought to things. But over the day Dean's pretty much made up his mind that he'll go through with things. And so, although still trying to appear relaxed and indifferent, Dean just nods his head in agreement. He parrot's the doctors words from before. "What have I got to lose, right?"

**_Just a little side note - The eye is not my area of research expertise. I can't even begin to know what kind of surgeries are out there and what kind of situations make for a viable candidate. Please ignore any glaring impossibilities. THanks!_**


	17. Chapter 17

**Hey guys! I can't do much more than apologize to you for making you all wait so long for the conclusion of this little ditty. I've said it before – I hate writing the last chapter of a story. I struggle with tying all loose ends together, and know that inevitably I will discover I've forgotten something important. However, I've had some faithful fans prodding me to finish this thing, and today's push finally got me to finish this. I wrote the last of it at work – (and hopefully the boss isn't reading this…lol). I'm not super satisfied, but I'm happy enough to post it. Hopefully it suffices! Time to bring this project to a close…**

For Sam, walking back into his brother's room post surgery is like a punch to the gut. It doesn't matter the purpose for the most recent surgery, doesn't matter the hope that comes along with it. Right now all he can see is the same image, the same vulnerability that appeared the day he'd walked in on Dean after his eyes had been burned. Dean, sitting upright in a hospital bed helpless and nervous, drugged up and in pain. His eyes are swathed in the same white bandages that wrap around his head several times, and an IV sticks out from the crook of his elbow, feeding him enough painkillers and antibiotics to make him loopy.

"Sammy?" Dean asks in the same weak, child-like voice that he'd used several months ago. He turns his head toward the door, seeking out the source of the footsteps.

"Yeah, Dean, it's me. I'm here now. How're you feeling?"

Dean shrugs, plays with the edge of the blanket. "Feels like the Klower got me all over again," he says quietly. "My eyes are on fire."

Sam's eyes widen in alarm and he rushes the last few feet to Dean's bedside, grabbing for the call button that sits just to the side of Dean's hand. But Dean reaches out and stops him before he can do anything more, hand gripping more tightly against Sam's wrist than he would have expected at this point.

"I've already told the doc. He says it's to be expected for the next few days. Just gotta live with it."

Sam calms marginally, but still can't bring himself to be totally okay with it. He can't help but think that he'd pushed Dean to have this surgery, and now he's in pain. Not exactly the way Sam had expected it to go down.

"What can I do?" he finally asks, knowing that going for more meds isn't something Dean will allow. It's a testament to how much pain he must be in that Dean has even accepted the dose they've got him on now.

"Just distract me. Tell me about the nurses."

Groaning, for appearances sake, Sam settles into the chair beside his brother's bed and tries to conjure up descriptions of the nurses that he knows will do Dean proud. He tells him about Dulcie, the leggy brunette that greeted Sam and Bobby after the surgery and directed them to the conference room. And about the red head that he spotted heading into another patient's room just as he was walking into Dean's. Tells him about one of the candy striper's he'd seen in the cafeteria while they waited on news of Dean's surgery.

Throughout it all Dean smiles and asks the appropriate questions, makes comments where Sam would expect him too. But he seems distracted still, and it isn't long before Dean interrupts Sam with a rushed, "Do you think it worked?"

Sam hesitates, gets his voice stuck on the first sound.

"The surgery, I mean," Dean says, as though there was any possibility that Sam might have thought it something else.

But it's not that. Sam knows exactly what Dean is asking; he's just not sure of the right answer. With everything he possesses Sam wants to be reassuring and certain, tell his brother that there's no doubt in his mind that it worked. But he's scared to death of what happens if that turns out to be a lie. Scared of what happens if he gets Dean's hopes up, gets his own hopes up, only to have them stomped on.

"I don't know Dean. I hope so," he says finally. It's a chicken shit of an answer. A cop out. And he knows it. So does Dean.

"Yeah, me too." Dean sighs, leans back into the bed some. He's not nearly as tense as he was that first time, finally having learned to relinquish some control over to Sam.

"So, at least three days before we know anything, huh?" Sam has to give Dean credit. He's trying to hold it together, trying not to appear so damn nervous. If only Sam had that same control.

"I guess," Sam answers. "Dr. Hourman seemed to be optimistic. He said things had gone well and now it's just a matter of time and healing. So yeah, maybe three days."

"Do you...d'you think it's just gonna be like flipping a switch? Like, they take the bandages off and bam! I can see again? Or is it gonna be gradual?"

"I don't know," Sam says again. He's no eye doctor. These are questions for Hourman, not Sam.

"But like, I'm gonna know, right? I mean, when they take the bandages off, I'll know if it worked. …or…or if it didn't?" He sounds so lost, so desperate.

Sam sighs, unable to completely deny his brother an answer. "Yeah, Dean. I think you'll know. From what Hourman says, there should at least be some sensation of light or dark within the next couple of days – you know, with the bandage changes and eye drops and stuff. But I don't know what it will be like when they come off for good."

"Yeah," Dean agrees uncertainly. He nods, slowly at first and then with more conviction as he gains more confidence. "It's gonna be good. That's how it'll be. Things are going to be good. This will work; I know it will."

---SUPERNATURAL---

There is no doubt about it; Dean is nervous. Scared shitless, if he's really being honest with himself. Nevertheless, he tries to remain stoic, aloof as the doctor comes in. Sam is jumpy enough for the both of them, and it's certainly not worthwhile to waste the energy when it can't change the outcome. At least that's what he tells himself. And hopefully, no one else is seeing the way his hands are shaking. Although, really, fat chance of that happening. Afterall, the rest of them aren't blind; only him.

Self-consciously, Dean slides his hands underneath the sheet and grips one within the other to try and still the jitters.

He's had eyedrops put in and the bandages changed several times over the last couple of days, but every time he's only seen a slight hint of light and shadow. The nurses are too fast, giving him only a matter of a second or two with the patches off his eyes before the drops are in and he's immersed back into the darkness that he's lived in for the last several months.

The surrounding sounds have been just background noise for the past several minutes, starting right about the time Dr. Hourman entered the room and started setting up for the big reveal. But suddenly Dean feels the bed dip and a hand gripping his shoulder, Sam's hand, and Dean shakes himself clear of his thoughts.

"You ready for this?" Sam's voice, low and controlled, soothing right by his ear.

Dean hesitates for just a second, uncharacteristically seeking out Sam's hand with his own. He finally nods when their hands connect and he can squeeze hard, working out all his anxieties on his brother's skin and bones. "Guess I have to be," he says softly. "Moment of truth and all, huh?"

"Either way, Dean, we'll work this out."

Dean snorts, schools his features, and pulls his hand away from Sam's quickly as though he's just realized they're touching. "Come on, Sam, don't start with your emo bullshit. Let's get on with this doc."

There's more rustling and then Dr. Hourman's hands are on his head, tugging at the gauze wrapped around his eyes. "Let's see what we've got here."

The gauze falls away, leaving only the cotton pads taped to his eyes, and Dean freezes. Just because he isn't saying it, doesn't mean he isn't scared to death about what he's about to find out. And keeping his emotions and worries to himself is hard, harder than he might like to admit.

Despite Dean's earlier reaction Sam is still by his side on the bed, sitting shoulder to shoulder with him and exuding his own form of confidence. Dean knows Bobby is somewhere in the room, but he's been quiet, save for the sound of the occasional clearing of his throat. But just knowing he's around is enough.

"I'm going to take the bandages off now," Hourman says. "Go ahead and keep your eyes closed until I've got both off. You can open them together, alright?"

Dean nods, and accepts the handful of tissues that Hourman nudges into his hand. "You may need these. You'll have a lot of goop on your eyes from the salve and the eyedrops."

There is a tug and a gentle pull as the tape peels away from the skin around Dean's eyes. He has to force himself to keep his eyes closed. No peeking. It's kind of a six of one, half a dozen of the other kind of scenario. On the one hand, Dean wants to look, doesn't want to wait the few extra seconds it will take to get the other eye patch off. But on the other hand, he's not ready to know. He's so scared of finding out that he's not been cured, scared of finding out that he's gotten his hopes – Sam's hopes – up just to be let down in the end.

The other patch comes off, but he waits for the go ahead before opening his eyes, okay with waiting.

"Whenever you're ready, Dean."

He waits just a few more seconds, needing that last little bit of time to prepare himself, and then reaches up with the tissues to wipe the residual gunk away. Dean can't help the wince at the pressure he feels on his eyes, and the reminder of the surgery once again causes him to question the chances of a positive outcome. The odds really aren't in his favor, he reminds himself, prepared to be disappointed.

"Ok, here goes nothing."

Dean turns his head to the right, where he knows Sam is, because he wants Sam to be the first thing he sees if it works. And he needs Sam to be the first to know he can't see if it fails.

His first blink is painful, a sharp ray of light and he has to quickly close his eyes again against the invasion. But that's positive! Light is a good thing, and a smile quickly forms on his face as he hears the doctor ask Sam to turn off the bedside light, explaining that it might be better for the room to be bathed in shadows.

Dean tries again, manages to keep his eyes open longer this time. The smile on his face grows immensely as a shadow comes into focus against a much more dull light in the background.

"Well? Can you see?" Sam's voice is impatient, as the shadow moves in front of Dean's eyes. The shadow is Sam, it has to be.

Blinking again, the shadow in front of his face comes even more into focus. Muted colors and blurred lines appear in his line of focus as the image in front of his face begins to look more and more like his little brother. "Sam? You really need to cut your hair, dude."

Relief fuels Sam's laugh, and Dean laughs with him, eternal smiles affixed to both of their faces. A blurry hand glides through tangled hair, the figure wiggles back and forth in laughter. "We're back to that already, huh? Think I liked you better when you couldn't see," Sam teases.

Next thing Dean knows, there is another figure in front of him, waving like a two year old. "So the surgery worked for ya, huh kid?" Bobby's gruff voice draws Dean to his face and the young hunter squints for a second to bring the new image into partial focus. "Everything's still kinda blurry, but yeah. I can see!" Dean says eagerly, still laughing jovially. Disbelief is clear in his tone, but so is relief and certainty.

He looks back and forth between his brother and his friend as the images continue to come more into focus. He can't make out the fine details, but the larger images are recognizable. Sam's arm is still hanging from a sling, but otherwise all signs of the hunt that started this whole thing have faded and Dean breathes a sigh of relief that he can finally see for himself that Sam is fine.

Dean beams. "Sammy…"

Just when it seems this moment is about to go down as one of Dean's despised "chick flick" moments the doctor steps into his line of sight, hands clasped together as he peers eagerly into Dean's face. "Mind if I take a look, Dean? See how we're doing?"

Nodding with relief, Dean turns his chin up and aims his face straight towards Dr. Hourman. "Go for it, doc."

Hourman pulls out a small penlight and aims it in Dean's right eye as he holds the lids open with the other hand. He flicks the light several times into and away from Dean's eye, intently studying the reaction of the pupils before he moves onto the other eye and repeats the same actions.

"It's looking good, Dean. There is no sign of scar tissue and everything appears to be healing up just the way we want it. Give yourself a couple of weeks and you should be as good as new."

"So the blurriness will go away?" Dean asks, blinking his eyes several times to remoisten them as he tries to focus on the doctor.

"There's no reason why not. As your eyes continue to heal you should have less and less trouble with your sight. Right now you've got a lot of mucus on the eye, trying to heal things up, but when that finally goes away you should be good."

Dean nods, considering the answer he's been given. "And when can I go home?" he finally asks, mind always reverting to that one track. It doesn't matter the reason, when he's in the hospital all he wants to do is get out.

Everyone in the room laughs, Dean himself, because they all know how anxious he's been. "I thought we might keep you here for a few more weeks," Hourman says, keeping his tone flat and serious.

It makes Dean freeze in place, murder written on his face, and it takes several seconds before finally realizing that the doctor is messing with him. "Not funny, doc," he grumbles. "Not funny at all. Seriously, when can I blow this joint?"

"How does tomorrow morning sound for you?"

---SUPERNATURAL---

It's strange, really, just how much Dean has come to rely on his other senses to get around. He had pretty much expected that once his sight returned he would abandon most of the new methods he's picked up over the past few months. But it hasn't exactly happened like that.

With his vision slowly returning, but not completely restored yet, Dean finds the drive home to be rather nauseating, blurry images passing by too fast for his healing eyes to fully process. After five minutes he gives in and shuts his eyelids to block out the sights. The darkness is oddly comforting, and he spends the rest of the drive orienting himself based on feel alone, grounding himself on the twists and turns that have now become so familiar. It's easier that way, he discovers, and within just a few turns he's certain he knows exactly where they are on the drive back to Bobby's.

Dean misses the curious looks Sam shoots at him more than once during the drive, oblivious as he leans back into the corner between the door and the bench seat, head pressed against the cool glass of the window. He's got his hands clenched tightly around the folded up cane that he's still refused to relinquish no matter how clear it is that Sam is desperate for him to do exactly that. It has become a crutch of sorts for him, a lifeline. He hasn't used it yet since his eyesight returned, but there is something comforting in feeling the grip of the handle so solid in his hands. He just hasn't quite gotten up the nerve to leave it behind.

They pull up into Bobby's junkyard and Sam parks the car within feet of the front steps, the passenger side door angled so that it's a straight shot into the house. It's the same thing he's done for the past couple of months, making an effort to make the little things easier on Dean. And it says something about Dean's still fragile state of mind that he finds himself grateful to Sam for not falling out of their new habits as quickly as he seems to want Dean to.

Pulling himself from the car, Dean blinks several times in the afternoon sun before he realizes the futile effort and shuts his eyes closed once again. He's not feeling nauseas now that they have stopped, but the daylight is still painful. A minute later he feels a hand on his shoulder and something being shoved into his hand.

"Here, put these on," Sam says.

Dean still doesn't open his eyes, instead using tactile sensation to determine that Sam has just given him a pair of sunglasses. Most likely the pair he's had on to drive them home. Dean smiles gratefully as he slips them on and carefully blinks his eyes back into focus.

For the first time he realizes just how much Bobby has changed his house around to accommodate Dean and his needs. Despite his blurry focus he can see how the path through the junkyard to the garage at the back has been meticulously cleared of its usual scattered debris and car parts to create a four-foot wide open pathway. The rickety railing leading up and down the steps to the house has been reinforced, and the broken step that Dean remembers even from childhood has finally been replaced by a fresh two by six plank. Beer bottles and dog dishes no longer lay scattered around the yard and porch, and the dog chain that used to be tied to a post at the front of the house has been moved around to the side where Dean would have been less likely to trip over it.

Dean sighs, missing the mess that used to epitomize his old friend's house. He's dreading seeing the changes inside, and knows they will be numerous. He hadn't really taken any of that into consideration before, when he was struggling to find his footing in the bachelor pad throughout the maelstrom that Bobby considers comfort.

Taking a deep breath, Dean grabs hold of the railing and starts to climb the steps to the porch, feet heavy as though treading through concrete. Behind him, he can tell Sam is climbing the stairs too, just one step behind, and Dean finds the comfort in his brother's proximity.

Inside the house there is more of the same, more clean and neat and disturbingly un-Bobby; disturbingly un-Winchester either, for that matter, but really – the point here is that things are different. And they were changed for one reason and one reason only – when Dean became blind.

It's suddenly overwhelming, and Dean staggers his way over to the couch where he sinks heavily into the worn cushions. Once again, he closes his eyes, unable to process the drastic changes he sees everywhere in the house.

A wet nose and a whimper brings Dean back to the present and he focuses his blurry eyesight on the massive head of a Rottweiler.

"Dante?" Dean asks hesitantly, suddenly unsure of the identity of his visitor and finding it strange that adding his missing sense back to the mix seems to be making him less certain of those he's always had.

The pup whines and nudges its head under his hand, demanding to be petted, and Dean reaches out unconsciously and begins stroking the dog's head. "Hey boy, how ya doing?" The feel of the coarse fur underneath his fingers relaxes Dean somewhat and he closes his eyes and lets himself sink into the soothing reminder of safety and security.

Several minutes go by before Dean senses that he's being watched, and he opens his eyes once more to find a blurry image of Sam and Bobby hovering just outside the doorway, clearly uncertain of their place in his re-orientation to sight and the house.

He sighs, first instinct to snap at them and tell them to get lost. Because he's just spent the last few months with one or both of them hovering just inches from him, ready to guide him all over the place and keep him from smacking face first into doors and walls and anything else that might be waiting around to trip him up. But one look at their expectant faces, so unsure and desperate, and Dean makes himself suppress his own feelings.

"Hey guys," he says, forcing the edge out of his voice. "Just catching up with Dante, here. What's up?"

Sam and Bobby both shrug, tense shoulders immediately relaxing as they step further into the room. There's a moment's hesitation as they flounder for an explanation, something that won't tip Dean off to their concern.

"Thought I'd get lunch on," Bobby finally says in his familiar gruff voice. "You got any requests, boy?"

As if in response, Dean's stomach growls. "Guess I could eat," he laughs. "How about cheeseburgers? With bacon?"

Bobby smiles and nods, relieved that Dean's appetite still seems intact. "Bacon cheeseburgers it is," he agrees, turning on his heel and leaving the brothers alone in the room.

Sam shuffles hesitantly forward and lowers himself into a chair beside the couch Dean sits on. Nodding at the rottie Sam comments, "He missed you, ya know. Slept at the bottom of your bed the whole time you were in the hospital."

"He's a good dog," Dean agrees, patting Dante's head eagerly and changing the tone of his voice to address him. "Aren't you, boy?"

"I'm gonna miss him," Dean says, addressing Sam once again.

Sam cocks his head, questioning Dean with just a look.

"I'm better now, Sam. We'll be leaving soon. You had to have realized that."

"Yeah. Yeah, sure I did," Sam says, too quick to return a response. "It's just that…"

Dean raises an eyebrow, surprised when the move allows his vision to clear just a tad more. "Just that what, Sam? We've got a job to do and I'm getting better now, so we need to keep on going."

"But Dean, you haven't even been home an hour yet. Don't you think you should give yourself a few days to recuperate? I can tell you're not one hundred percent – doesn't take a rocket scientist."

"No, but I will be," Dean answers, realizing that denial will get him nowhere at this point. "Yeah, so my vision is still a little blurry right now. But that will change. It's already getting better…gimme a few days and I'm as good as new." He raises a hand against his eyes and wipes away some more of the tears and goop that haven't stopped flowing since the bandages were removed the day before, and at once he can see more clearly.

"That doesn't mean you have to jump right into things immediately," Sam protests.

"It also shouldn't mean that a bunch of innocent people should have to suffer any longer. Come on, Sam! I've been out of commission for months now. Just think how many cases have gone unresolved because of me."

Sighing in exasperation, Sam stands back up and paces across the room, his arms flailing wildly. "Dean! Seriously, you can't really be thinking of blaming yourself for anything that's happened since you got hurt. You're allowed to take time to recover, you know. Nobody expected you to be out there saving lives when you were trying to get your life back in order."

Dean goes silent, and suddenly Sam realizes that he may have gone a step too far, realizes that his brother has been thinking exactly what Sam's afraid of.

"You can't honestly be blaming yourself for getting hurt!" Sam repeats, voice a mixture of wariness and frustration.

"Just drop it, Sam." Dean climbs to his feet, taking on a defensive stance. "You've been in my seat before, too. Don't tell me you've never thought it."

"Yeah, I have! And every damn time you're right there to smack the self-pity right out of me. So don't go turning this around. Anything that's happened in the past couple months is by no means your fault. It's not like you went off to Cancun for an extended vacation; you couldn't _see_, Dean. I think people would consider that a forgivable offense."

"I don't want to talk about this, Sam. It's over. Done. But now we've got to get back out there. Soon as I don't have this damn blurriness everywhere I look we're back on the road. End of discussion."

In an instant Sam realizes that Dean is serious; that nothing he says or does is going to change anything. In a huff he throws his arms up in submission and stomps out of the room, muttering under his breath about going to check on Bobby and see how dinner is going.

Dean flops back down onto the couch, spent. He hadn't realized just how exhausting it would be to put up such a front for Bobby and Sam, but in the end he knows it will all be worth it. He's never been able to sit around and wait for things to happen. This is no different.

They need to be back out there, doing what they do best, but Dean knows that leaving things up to Sam will only result in an extended stay at Casa del Singer. Not that Dean doesn't appreciate everything their old friend has done and given up for him, but right now he just needs everything to get back to normal.

SUPERNATURAL ---

Dean waits exactly two days, and no longer. That morning he's up before the sun is shining, packing bags and preparing weapons. Sam hasn't exactly neglected their weapons over the past months, but he certainly hasn't kept them up to the standard their father drilled into them. Dean spends two hours just cleaning them, disassembling and reassembling guns and reveling in the fact that while he can do it blindfolded (as he's often bragged) he no longer needs to.

He's got a new lease on life with his sight back, and he's determined not to take anything for granted. Cleaning the weapons, Dean soaks in every nick and scratch and mar in the polished wood and metal, memorizing them by image alone until he's feeling the eye strain on his still healing eyes. He studies Sam as he sleeps, absorbing the information like a sponge – freckles and scars and wrinkles. Sam has a lot of wrinkles and worry lines for someone so young, Dean realizes. They've led a hard life, fraught with pain and stress and more information than most people deal with in their lifetimes. For a split second Dean allows himself to consider what it might be like if he hadn't recovered his sight, what it would cost them to settle down and start living their lives as civilians. It would almost be worth it, he thinks…almost. For Sam's sake, of course.

But then he gets to thinking about the fact that he _has_ been healed, that he _can_ see again, and all the 'what if's' and 'maybes' of another life go out the window. People need their help. Innocent people. And he's not about to let some misplaced desire for a normal life stand in the way of that. In the end, Dean knows for damn certain that he'd never be able to live with himself if others were getting hurt while he's off living some cherry pie existence. Never gonna happen.

He lets Sam sleep until eight, surprised that he makes it that far, then rouses him with a flick of the ear. "Sammy, up and at 'em. Daylight's wastin'!"

Sam comes to with a start, immediately turns it into a groan and a glare from beneath the covers as he mumbles incomprehensible words at his brother.

"Come on, Sam. We got rubber to burn, people to save. I've got us a hunt over in New Hampshire. Figure by the time we make it there my eyesight ought to be back up to one hundred percent. Come on, let's go!"

The excitement in Dean's voice is way too good to hear, and Sam can't bring himself to do or say anything that might jeopardize Dean's mood. He slowly rolls out of bed and pads to the bathroom without saying a word, although internally he's already deducing a plan to slow down their trip by at least a day, just enough to be absolutely certain Dean's ready.

When he emerges from the bathroom twenty minutes later there is no sign of their stuff anywhere in the room. Dean has already cleaned it out. Sam groans, rolls his eyes, but gathers his shampoo and last night's boxers into a bundle and totes them down the stairs in search of his brother.

Dean isn't in the kitchen either, or the living room, and neither is Bobby. He finally finds them outside, both leaning against the car talking. Dante is at Dean's left hand, eating up his last few minutes of attention from the man he's come to think of as his own. Dean grins when Sam emerges, pats the dog one last time and grips Bobby's hand to say good-bye, thanks, see you soon. He barely gives Sam time to descend the stairs before he's got the motor revving and music blasting, doesn't allow for any questions as Sam says his own good-byes and climbs into the passenger seat.

Things are good right now. Dean Winchester is a whole man once again, ready to face the world and all the other-worldly creatures within it, and nothing is going to change that right now.

"So what's in New Hampshire?" Sam asks as they pull out of Bobby's dirt drive and onto the main road. He'll watch his brother over the next few weeks just to be sure he's not overdoing things, but for now he's content to let Dean lead, to fall back into the role he's played so well for so many years.

On the open road there is a sense of familiarity, security, as Sam looks over and sees his big brother behind the wheel of the Impala. For the first time in months everything seems right with the world – or at least the world they live in. They're back on the road carrying out the family business, doing what they do best. And one look at Dean gives Sam the confidence to know that everything's going to be okay.

**A/N: Alright, so I am swearing of ever posting a incomplete fic ever again! That said, I will probably go offline for a while as I work on the upcoming projects. I've got 2 in the works that (hopefully – fingers crossed) will see the light of day very soon. Here's a little tidbit of what is to come…**

**One is a Retribution AU sequal. I was approached by a wonderful author and new friend – Betzz – who propositioned an AU story in Dean doesn't luck out at the end of Retribution. She wanted to see what happens to Dean if the wire actually did sever his spinal cord and ends up leaving him a high-level quadriplegic. I agreed to see where we could go with that idea and ended up allowing our imaginations to run wild! This will be posted in three parts (I will post as each part is completed) starting with **_**Redemption**_**. We're more than halfway through with part I and have multiple drabbles and scenes written for the additional 2 parts. Keep posted for that one!**

**The second is the promised and long awaited deaf!Dean story that I said I would write well over a year ago – so sorry guys! As I said early on in this story, I would choose one in which he is healed, and one in which the injury becomes permanent. So there is a very good chance that Dean will find himself permanently deaf very soon…**

**Thanks once again for being such loyal readers and not giving up on me! I'm grateful to everyone of you for your patience in seeing this through to completion. I start graduate school this coming fall and have been driving 3 hours back and forth to see my wonderful boyfriend as often as I can, so I can't speak for the amount of time I will have to devote to writing… But both stories are very dear to my heart and I will put forth every effort to get them out ASAP! **


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